Return to Paris
by xAndarielx
Summary: Meg returns to Paris five years later and falls under Erik's spell, but someone else wishes to tear them apart. Can love be found again beneath the Opera House? EM.
1. In Paris, Once More

"Maman!" Megan Elizabeth Giry said with a bright smile, throwing herself into her mother's open arms. Madame Giry embraced her daughter fondly, squeezing her tightly and pecking her on the cheek. For five long years they had been separated, following the strange events of the Opera House. Little Meg, as she had once been called, had been sent to England following Christine Daae's marriage to Raoul de Chagny. There she had attended the finest ballet and music school, graduating with honors and achieving some success in London theaters.

But it had not been enough to succor her. Night after night Meg had dreamed of warm Paris nights, of dancing in the old Opera House, of her mother. Unable to take it any longer, she had packed her possessions and boarded the first ship back to France. Meg had never been as uncertain of her future as she had been sailing on that ship. Her mother had no idea she was returning to France, and while Meg secretly hoped to get a job at the Opera House, that was uncertain, too.

But now, Meg was with her mother again, and she felt her courage returning. It had been an odd but pleasant coincidence to run into her mother outside of the Opera House on that fine summer afternoon. When she first caught her mother's eye, Madame Giry had not been sure it was Meg at all.

The years had been kind to Meg, transforming her angelic adolescent beauty into the breathtaking woman she was now. She had grown tall, and her body was lithe and graceful, seeing as she had been a dancer all her life. She still had her golden hair, and her liquid brown eyes, but her skin was creamy and soft, and her little mouth was pretty and pink, turning up into a delightful smile at seeing her mother.

At last Madame Giry had recognized her beloved daughter, and had happily welcomed her into her arms. But after the initial joy came the questions. "Meg, what are you doing here? You should be in England, studying! Why have you come back? Has something happened?"

Antoinette Giry had a kind of beauty that was ageless. She looked almost exactly as Meg had always known her, though the lines around her all-knowing blue eyes were a bit deeper, perhaps. But she was the same in every way else, even down to her long hair which was still coiled on top of her head. A glimmer of worry was in her eyes, and Meg was quick to explain.

"Maman, please, don't be angry. I…I've decided to come home at last. I loved England, and I loved the school, and, well, I was happy. But…"

"But sometimes," Madame Giry interrupted, "It is simply time to come home, no, little one?"

"Oh, Maman!" Meg gushed, falling back into her mother's warm embrace. "I knew you'd understand. At least, I'd hoped so." Meg found that she was unable to control the tears that came to her eyes. For a moment they stood there, mother and daughter, oblivious to the busy world around them, reconnecting in a way that only a mother and her child could.

At last Meg raised her head, grinning despite the tears clinging to her face. Clucking, Madame Giry wiped them away with her soft hands. "Meg, my love, I am happy you're home. Of course, you'll need to explain things more to me later. I can barely hear with all of the noise around us." Meg glanced around, nodding her agreement. Vendors stood selling their wares, men in business suits walked by yelling loudly, and women with screaming children brushed past them.

"The Opera House is my home again, Meg, and yours too now, I suppose," Madame Giry told her daughter, linking her arm with her daughters and leading her towards the grand building. "You will find it is quite the same as it was, though everything is obviously new. The new manager is a Monsieur Barton, an English man. They've just completed auditions for the new Company, and shortly they are to begin work on their first production. I, of course, am to instruct the chorus girls in ballet. I do not suppose you have come to help me in that regard?"

"I'm afraid not, Maman," Meg said with surprising certainty. "I know now is not the time to tell you this, but I don't want to be a teacher. You are the greatest teacher I have ever known, and I will never be as wonderful as you. I am still young, and I can still be a chorus girl."

"My daughter, still a chorus girl?" Madame Giry questioned in surprise. "Nonsense. After the schooling you've been through, you shall be a marvelous dancer. We shall talk to Monsieur Barton and find you a place in the Company. One that is suitable for your talent and my pride in you."

Meg grinned, content to be with her beloved mother again. They had reached the doors to the Opera House. Madame Giry unhooked her arm and threw the doors wide open with great aplomb. She stepped inside like a queen returning to her palace, and Meg followed behind. As her mother had said, the Opera House looked almost exactly the same. One new improvement that was immediately noticeable was the stone fountain in the center of the foyer, bubbling merrily with crystal clear water. Madame Giry picked up her black skirts and ascended the marble staircase, heading for the left. Meg followed in silence, lost in a wave of thoughts and memories.

Meg had been a witness to the strange events that had taken place five years before. She had watched Christine spiral downward into such a web of murder and intrigue as had never before been known to the young girls. She had seen the famed Opera Ghost with her own eyes, and still possessed a belonging that had once been in. There was a question that burned within her, one that she had never dared before asked her mother; did the Opera Ghost still exist? She knew the police had declared him killed in the fire, and Christine and Raoul had completely wiped him from their minds. But could he have survived the fire? Did he still wander the catacombs, broken and in despair? Or did he long for revenge? That seemed the more likely path, if he were still alive.

They had arrived before the doors that led to the managerial suites. An engraved golden plaque read on the door E. BARTON. Madame Giry knocked firmly on the door, and then turned to her daughter with a smile of comfort. "Do not worry, little one," she told Meg softly. "We will settle you in here, and then look forward to your future. I am too happy that you are here to be angry with you, I confess."

The door flew open before she could continue. Standing there was a tall blonde man with the greenest eyes Meg had ever seen. Green eyes that she _recognized_. The man before them obviously recognized Meg in return. He stood there with his mouth slightly open, his handsome face revealing his surprise. "_Meg_? Meg…what are you doing here?" His voice was rich and soft with a British accent.

"Edmund," Meg returned in a quiet voice. "I…well…"

"You have met my daughter, Monsieur Barton?" Madame Giry spoke up, watching their exchange with ill-hidden interest.

"Yes, I have, Madame Giry. Only…I didn't know you were related, let alone she was your _daughter_…"

"I see," Madame Giry said quietly.

"We met in England when I first arrived," Meg said, turning to her mother to avoid Edmund's burning gaze. "We parted a year later. He was very kind to me."

Edmund seemed to have finally regained control, and stood up straight. "Meg, I am so pleased to see you again. I knew we'd cross paths again someday, but I never dreamed it would be under these circumstances. I'm just so…pleased!"

"Yes, you said that already," Madame Giry said curtly. "Monsieur Barton, Meg has returned from England hoping to receive employment here. She is a dancer, as I'm sure you know, and the very finest I have ever seen or taught, if I may say so. Surely you have a position that is suitable for her."

"But of course," he said huskily, his eyes searching to meet Meg's. She would not meet his gaze, staring instead at her demurely folded hands. "We would be honored if Meg would join the Company as a lead dancer. If I'm not mistaken, she sings, as well."

"Yes, she received more vocal training while in England," Madame Giry agreed. She could see how uncomfortable Meg was, and quickly ended the exchange. "Monsieur Barton, thank you, but Meg has had a long voyage, and I wish her to come with me now to rest. I'm sure you can catch up on things later. Au revoir." Madame Giry took Meg's hand firmly and led her away. Meg stumbled along behind her, all the while feeling Edmund's gaze piercing into the back of her.

At last they rounded a corner. Meg relaxed somewhat, and her mother was blessedly kind and asked no questions…yet. Meg had asked her luggage to be delivered to the Opera House, but was unsure if it had arrived yet. Madame Giry stopped at the door next to her own, and pulled out a large key ring that held dozens of tiny gold keys. Unlocking the door, she pulled Meg into the large room.

"This is the room for the lead dancer, my child. Conveniently, they are next to mine. Get some rest now, and we'll chat later about…about everything." She pecked her daughter on the cheek, and with one last worried glance, left the room.

At last Meg was alone. The room was spacious and beautiful, with a large window affording a beautiful view to the street below. Sinking onto the bed, her eyes stared at nothing at all. Lost in her thoughts, she gently laid down on the bed. Meg Giry had left England to find comfort back home with her mother, only to run into the one man she had hoped never to see again. What was to happen now?


	2. Midnight Intrusion

He watched from the shadows. The girl had fallen asleep, exhausted, still in her traveling gown. But no, she was no longer a mere girl. She was a young woman, that much was to be sure. And he'd seen her before. But where? A thought came to his head. Could it be…Little Meg? But no. Little Meg had been a pretty thing, but small, and did not have the beauty the woman there had.

He closed the small panel he had been peering through. Moving to the right, he grasped for the switch that would slide the secret door open. Gloved hands found the familiar switch and pulled it. The wall moved in absolute silence, allowing a space for Erik, the famed 'Opera Ghost,' to slide through. It shut behind him without noise. Moving closer to the bed, he now stood over her, his gaze fixed intently on her beautiful face.

It was Meg, all right, beautiful, beautiful Meg. Somehow he had missed her arrival at the Opera House, despite his careful vigilance. He was very interested in how his Opera was now to be run, very interested indeed. For five long years he had dwelt in the catacombs while the Opera House was rebuilt. He had wished strongly at the time for the world to think him dead, another victim of love's cruelty. Even for one so used to solitude as he, Erik had found the five years to be the most unbearable he had ever endured. He had not even _seen_ a human being once during that time, let alone interacted with one.

And then there were the dreams: Dreams of Christine dancing away from him, smiling and laughing coyly. As the years progressed, the dreams changed, and Christine no longer appeared in them at all. He had wiped her from his mind, determined to be free of the little songbird's spell. Could anyone truly blame him? Alone, unloved and hideous, he had found it impossible to resist the spell of the young singer. It was her voice, he reminded himself, not the girl herself that had fascinated him so. Never again would he hear a voice of such ethereal beauty, he knew, and he had put it solidly behind him. Or, at least, he had tried to.

Meg was breathing deeply in her slumber, a misplaced angel illuminated by the glowing moon outside the window. Just a moment longer, he promised himself, unwilling to look away from Meg. Being as he was, Erik appreciated beauty more than most. He understood it, knew it by heart, and could never deny it.

In the hall outside the door, soft footfalls approached. Erik jerked his attention to the door. There was a rap upon it, followed by the soft voice of Madame Giry. "Meg, my love? Are you awake?" Meg's eyes fluttered open, widening at the site of the great shadowy figure that stood over her. Her lips parted to scream, but Erik's gloved hand covered quickly covered her mouth. With a strong arm he pulled her from the bed, holding her against him as he moved toward the hidden door. He was not ready for anyone to discover he was still alive! That meant even Madame Giry, whom he had once trusted with his life. The time was not yet come.

With his back to the wall he clasped the still-struggling Meg to him with the arm that kept her silent, and used his free hand to feel for the hidden switch. He pushed it, and slid back into the passageway with Meg.

In the hall, Madame Giry raised her fist to knock again. She stopped herself, her fist hovering in the air for a moment. Meg had had a long journey, she reasoned with herself, and was most likely sleeping soundly. Perhaps it was best not to wake her. With a mother's hesitation, she picked up her skirts and began to leave. She glanced one final time behind her, and left the hall.

In the passage, Meg struggled like a jungle cat, fighting at her captor with all the desperation and strength she could muster. At last she drove her elbow into her captor's rib cage. He grunted, and his grip relaxed for only a moment. But a moment was all it took. Meg slipped from his arms with a dancer's grace, fleeing from him in the opposite direction. The passage was narrow and stone, lit by some unseen source of light. She had not gotten far before Erik caught up to her, and she screamed as loudly as she could. Her cry echoed through the passage, surrounding the two of them like an eerie blanket.

Erik had something clasped in his hand, and pulling her to him once more, he placed it over her mouth. "I'm sorry, Little Meg," she heard a voice say as she slipped into black unconsciousness.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Sorry this is such a short chapter! I'm working hard to update this, so please review! It keeps me ever-so motivated -


	3. Solution

AN: It has come to my attention that I never put a disclaimer up, so this one goes for the entire thing, including the first two chapters: I don't own any of these characters, etc., I'm just a fan who loves this stuff.

Another note: thank you to everyone who has reviewed! I hope this chapter lives up to your awesome reviews. I have a bad habit of writing only late at night, so...anyway, enjoy.

* * *

The darkness was suffocating, but in a comforting way. It surrounded her, embraced her, ruled her existence. Slowly, so very slowly, a faint light shone in the distance, like a firefly on the horizon of a black night. Little by little it grew, and finally she reached for it. Meg fought to open her eyes, the light now playing harshly on them. She felt weighed down and heavy, like a pile of old quilts was holding her down. 

Her eyes adjusted to the light at last, which she found was not the bright, piercing light she had supposed it was, but rather a candle beyond a black lace curtain that surrounded her. This wasn't right. Where was she? Her mind searched for answers, grasped for control, but she was weak, confused. Memories crept back, and with stunned realization she remembered all.

She sat up too quickly, and her head spun out of control. At last it ebbed, and she was able to look around herself with clearer vision. She had been placed on the softest, most luxurious bed she had ever known. It was circular, all done in the blackest of satins and silks. Surrounding the bed was a barrier of dark lace. With her eyes, she searched for an opening of some sort, a way to escape this mysterious prison, but she could find none.

Without warning, the lace began to rise, slowly folding as it ascended. There, standing before her, was a man she had seen before, the cord that had lifted the lace curtain still clasped in his gloved hand. She remembered now, vividly, what had happened. The Phantom of the Opera, as he had been known, had dragged her from her room and brought her here. But why? What reason could he possibly have to steal her away like this? She should be frightened, she knew, and she was, in her way. But more than anything, she was just confused.

"I thought you'd be waking soon," he said to her, his voice deep and rich, yet somber and achingly sad. This man before her was nothing like the one she had seen, however briefly, five years before. She had been assured by her closest friend, Christine Daae, that the Phantom was everything violent and dark. He had killed, sabotaged, done everything in his power to make Christine's world turn upside down, or at least Christine had said as much. Even Madame Giry had expressed her concern during the whole terrible ordeal that the Phantom was mad, and she had been his greatest supporter, his only ally.

Meg wasn't sure what she expected, but it was not the quiet, shadowy man before her. He was still an intimidating sight, however. He was almost entirely in black. Even the demi-mask that covered part of his scarred face was black.

His mask. In a flash, Meg thought she understood. His mask, of course! Five years ago, Meg had led the angry mob down into the depths of the Phantom's lair. While those around her had searched unceasingly for the elusive Opera Ghost, Meg had been driven by an unknown force towards the white mask that lay untouched on a gold table. Her hands had reached for it with a will of their own, gently folding it into the folds of her costume. She still had it, hidden away among her things. That had to be the answer! He had taken her because he wanted his mask back.

"This was all unnecessary, you know," she said to him. He looked quizzically at her, his dark eyes fixed entirely on her face. "You had no need to drag me down here. And drugging me! That was completely uncalled for!"

"I'm afraid," he said, letting the cord drop from his hand, "that this is a precarious situation. I am loathe to admit that I am unsure how to resolve it." With a ragged sigh, he sat on the edge of the bed, one hand draped on the soft material while the other rested on his lap. Meg unconsciously scooted further away from him, drawing her knees to her chest when she had reached a comfortable distance.

"It's very simple," she said, fighting the growing agitation she felt creeping into her voice. "You lead me back up to my room, and I'll give you what you want. All this…this kidnapping was completely unnecessary!"

"Yes, you mentioned that," he cut in. "Mademoiselle Giry, whatever do you mean? Give me what I want? You haven't the slightest idea what I want." His gaze fell from Meg's face. Erik wasn't sure he even knew what he wanted. But that was far too philosophical a question to be addressed at this moment, though it had plagued him for five years now, if not his whole life. Right now he had a young woman on his hands that he wasn't sure what to do with, and she was beginning to talk nonsense.

"Your mask. You want your mask." Silence greeted her. Slowly, his eyes rose to meet hers once more. Her own widened at the intense stare Erik had bestowed upon her.

"You…you have my mask?" There was a hint of anger in his voice. Meg fought the knot of fear rising in her throat, swallowing hard. But his next words were softer. "I thought it was gone." For a long moment there was silence between them. Their eyes were still connected, his dark ones searching hers, looking for something. "What, Mademoiselle Giry, possessed you to take _my_ mask?" The anger had returned to his voice.

"I don't know!" she responded immediately, and a little desperately. If all that Christine had said was true, and the murders had proved that much of what she said had been true, Meg was in a dire situation. With surprising speed, Erik crossed the bed, kneeling above her and clasping her arm.

"Why did you take my mask?" he demanded, his voice now a deadly whisper.

"Because…" Meg was gripped by fear, fighting to force the words out. "Because I didn't want anyone to hurt it!" she burst out. Silence. Erik released her arm, moving back away from her. "They would have," she continued. "They destroyed many things that night, and they would have destroyed it, too."

Guilt hung heavily on Erik. The world was cold, and most of the people in it. He had learned that the hard way, and had promised himself that he would never forget it again. Of course his first instinct was to believe that Meg was as ruthless as the next person, taking the mask for her own personal gain, perhaps even destroying it. When he had finally returned to his lair, his _home_, he had found it nearly in ruin. The mob had smashed through it like an angry storm, dashing his treasures and laying waste to his domain. It had taken three of the five years to restore it to its former glory.

Meg said nothing. She watched him carefully, ready to flee if he moved closer to her again. He had not hurt her, but she wasn't sure that he was in his right frame of mind. For all she knew, he could kill her in an instant. Christine had always said he'd do just that if given a chance.

Erik's soft voice broke the silence. "I did not bring you down here because of the mask. I brought you here because you know I'm alive. As you can imagine, I'd rather no one knew I was still alive, at least not at this time. The world's happier thinking me dead."

"I won't tell anyone," Meg said immediately. She was shocked to find that she meant it. After all this, she didn't want to tell a soul what had happened. She pitied this man, this Phantom. No, not pitied—pity was a degrading emotion. But she felt compassion for him. What he said was true—the world did wish him dead. What must it be like to have no one in the world? Meg had her mother, and her father, God rest his soul, had taken care of her in his lifetime, as well. Christine, her friends in England, perhaps even Edmund-they all cared for Meg, and wanted her to be safe and happy. She imagined, for just a moment, life without these needed loved ones. It was unbearable, like a life of pointless existence.

Erik was at a complete lost. Madame Giry had always been kind and compassionate to him. She had saved him from Hell on earth. He was beginning to think that her daughter was like her in that regard. And what a way to repay Madame Giry's kindness. Kidnapping her daughter was hardly a sincere thank you. But if someone knew he was still alive, it could shatter his world once more, even end it. Could he trust her?

As though reading his thoughts, Meg added, "You can trust me. I have no reason to wish you harm."

Erik scoffed at that. Everyone had reason to wish him harm. But still…

"Truly, you can trust me. And you can have your mask back."

He had no choice. Rising from the bed, he extended his hand to her. Meg hesitated only briefly, and then accepted it, allowing him to assist her off of the bed. He turned from her, rifling through a drawer in a gold table standing beside the bed. Meg was about to look over her surroundings when he turned back to her, a long piece of black fabric in his hand.

"You're not going to drug me again, are you?" she asked, appalled.

"No," he replied simply, fingering the fabric. "But it is necessary for me to blindfold you. The fire made the entrance to my lair that you know of inaccessible, so I have had to find new ways to move about the Opera House. If you knew your way here, then I really couldn't let you go." That was reason enough for Meg. At his direction she turned around, allowing him to secure the blindfold. She shivered at his touch, but fought to hide her reaction. She didn't want him to think she was afraid of him.

He led her slowly back to her room, the terrain beneath her feet altering from what felt like stone to soft dirt, and finally to wood flooring. At last he led her through the hidden entrance to her own room, and untied her blindfold. "The mask, if you please," he urged, remaining by the open entrance back to the passage. She nodded, going to her still unpacked things. After searching through the largest of her trunks, she pulled out the mask, wrapped with great care in white fabric.

She approached him again, holding out the mask. But as he reached to take it from her, she pulled it back again. "Just what were you doing in my room in the first place?" she asked him, cradling the mask.

"It's my Opera House, Mademoiselle. I can do as I please."

Meg raised her eyebrows, taking a step away from him. "That's not the answer I was looking for," she said with surprising courage. "What reason could you possibly have for watching me while I slept?"

Erik sighed, at his wit's end with this saucy girl. She was her mother's child, that much was certain. When she wanted to say something, she said it. "Mademoiselle, I feel the need to watch over and inspect, if you will, every person who enters into my Opera. You aren't different from anyone else."

With a shrug of her shoulders, Meg handed him the mask, and he took it from her grasp. With reverence, he slid it into the crook of his arm, and turned to leave. "Goodbye, Phantom," Meg said softly to him. He stopped, silent for a moment.

"My name is Erik," he said in a ragged voice.

"And mine is Meg," she added.

He whirled around to face her. "So it is," he said softly, nodding once. And then he was gone, the secret panel soon sliding silently shut behind him. Meg stared long after him, her thoughts consumed with the Phantom she could finally give a name to: Erik.


	4. Introduced to the Company

The morning dawned soon after Meg was returned to her room. Some time later, Madame Giry came to her daughter's room, and knocked gently on the door. "Meg?" she called from the other side of the door. "Are you up, my darling?" Meg had hurriedly changed from her traveling outfit into a simple day dress of cornflower blue. She pinched her pale cheeks to add color so as not to alarm her mother, and ran a brush through her thick tresses, pulling part of it up and securing it with golden pins.

"I'm coming, Maman!" Meg called, her voice sounding more desperate than she would have liked. She was determined not to betray Erik's trust. She feared him, for one thing, but on the other hand, she also respected his wishes. How cruel it must be to endure a life hidden in shadows. From all she had heard from Christine, the shadows were his home. If one wanted to life in the darkness, Meg could find no argument. But as for her own life, she was determined to live it in the sunshine and on the stage.

She flung the door open, and a burst of cool air rushed in from the hallway. Madam Giry smiled fondly at her beloved daughter, embracing her tightly then pulling away to inspect her. As always, she was dressed in her black dress, her long hair pulled up, smoothed and pinned into a tight bun. "Meg, my darling, did you not sleep well? You look tired."

"It is strange being back," Meg answered, searching for an excuse. "I did sleep, but I also spent a good deal of the night just thinking." She unconsciously smoothed wrinkles from her gown, avoiding eye contact with her mother for the moment. After all, mothers knew best, and Madame Giry was much more keen than most mothers. If anyone could see through Meg, it was her mother.

Either she didn't notice or chose not to say anything. "Come," Madam Giry beckoned, linking arms with her daughter and leading her into the hallway. "Tell me what you were thinking," she gently said as they made their way through the Opera House.

"Nothing in particular," Meg lied, hating herself for it. "Only of past events and old friends."

"You did not think of the Strange Incident, did you? That is over and done with, you know. I am afraid the Opera Ghost died with the fire, or left for good. You know, my darling, after all that happened, I still cannot help but think of him as a friend. He was so gifted...but the darkness drove him to do terrible things. But listen to me, talking about things that ought to be forgotten. Our lives begin again each new day, and today is an especially wonderful new beginning."

"Yes, a new beginning," Meg agreed. The adventure of the night was strange and frightening, but it was over, Meg firmly told herself. She'd never see Erik again, and she'd keep his existence a secret, as she had promised him. She had other things to think on, a new life to begin. She smiled at her mother, enjoying for the moment simply being with her. The Opera House was awaking around them. Men and women moved through the hallways, some of them calling friendly greetings to each other, others bursting through rudely in their rush to get to their work.

The Giry women entered the stage through one of the rear entrances, followed by a growing entourage of curious onlookers. So it was true; Meg Giry had returned to claim the stage as a triumphant dancer. Rumors had already begun, spreading not unlike the fire that had claimed the Opera House years before. Some said Meg had returned because of horrible failure as a dancer in England. Some said she had come back after a humiliating broken engagement. Those who had been her friends were happy for her return. Those who had yet to meet her gave her cool stares, assessing her as possible competition.

The stage was a bustle with activity. Elaborate set pieces were pulled here and there by large, sweaty stagehands, and members of the Company dressed in gaudy costumes clumped in groups, some of them warming up together and others eagerly joining in on the gossip. When Edmund strolled onto the stage, the talking quieted, and everyone waited for him to speak. Surely he would confirm the reason for Megan Giry's return.

"Ladies and gentleman," he began, his eyes searching for Meg's. She did not return his gaze, instead staring at the floor in what appeared to be a demure fashion. He pressed on. "I am very happy to announce the return of Miss Megan Giry, the talented and beloved daughter of our own Madame Giry. Those of you who have been with the Company long will surely recognize her and welcome her back into the fold. Those of you who have not yet had the fortune to meet Miss Giry, I am sure you will be pleased to make her acquaintance. Miss Giry has graciously agreed to join our Company as the Prima Ballerina."

This announcement was followed by several gasps. Apparently, the rumor of her failed career was untrue. "As you all know," Edmund continued, "we have been awaiting the addition of a prima ballerina, and now are privileged to have the beloved Miss Giry fulfill that role. Now, please, carry on with rehearsals. There will be time for greetings and introductions later."

By the end of his address, Meg's cheeks were flaming red. Madame Giry couldn't be more proud. Edmund grinned lopsidedly, approaching her with hands on hips. "That was quite a speech, Edmund," Meg commented. "Do you always refer to the Company as _the fold?"_ Edmund laughed, his perfect smile attracting the longing gaze of many of the women. It was obvious they were all taken with him. Meg could understand; she was once taken with him, as well. But she had learned better.

"I hope you weren't embarrassed, Meg," he said, his grin faltering. Meg almost believed he was sincere. Edmund added, "I only wanted them to understand where it is you stand. I truly am very pleased you've agreed to join the Company."

Meg could only nod. Madam Giry, perplexed, watched the exchange coolly. There was, obviously, more to the relationship than Meg had yet let on. "I must check on the ballerinas," she told them softly, squeezing Meg's hand before she left.

"Edmund…that is, Monsieur Barton," Meg began, completely serious.

"Edmund, please. You must call me Edmund, Meg," Edmund interrupted breathlessly.

"Very well. Edmund." Meg cast her eyes about and wasn't surprised to find several other pairs watching them carefully. "We can't speak here—you're too much the eligible bachelor."

"Perhaps we may speak in my office, then?" Edmund asked her, full of politeness as he bowed slightly towards her.

"Yes, of course," Meg agreed whole-heartedly. At least that way no one would overhear the heated words that were sure to come, though she was hesitant to spend any time alone with him. Edmund extended his arm, Meg took it, and they left the crowded stage. Disappointed glares from several young ladies followed them, though Meg chose to lift her chin higher and ignore them all.

They made the journey in silence. Edmund ushered Meg in, closing the door behind her. He gestured to a plush red chair situated before the oppressively large desk. The room was very large, filled with tasteful and expensive furniture. It was far different then it had been with the previous managers, Meg noticed. From the fine paintings to the fine vases, Edmund had certainly made it his own.

Rather than sitting behind the desk, Edmund chose to take the seat next to Meg, settling himself in an identical red chair. The look in his eyes betrayed the gentlemanly look on his face. It was a look that Meg couldn't identify, one she disliked entirely.

"Edmund," she began immediately, tearing her gaze from his. "You must understand that my feelings have not changed. What you did, what you have done, I still find it very difficult to forgive you. I was young, Edmund, very young, and you were far too charming for anyone's good."

"Meg!" Edmund interrupted, reaching to take her hand. She ripped it from his grasp, standing hastily and moving away from him.

"No!" Meg said in anger. "Don't you dare touch me! You _will_ understand, Edmund. I wish us to be civil, but nothing more. You are to be my employer, but nothing else. Do you understand?"

"Meg, please!" Edmund begged. "I have listened to you, now hear me out! I was a damned fool, a damned fool! Not a day goes by that I do not regret what I did to you. I was taken in by that dark-haired harlot, but I have only ever loved _you._ I know it is too soon to ask you to love me again, but surely it is not too much to ask that you be my friend!"

Meg's eyes burned with hot tears. A great battle was being fought inside of her. She struggled to restrain the painful memories. Later, she promised herself. Later she could cry as much as she liked, but not now. Pulling herself together, she faced Edmund squarely. "Monsieur Barton, I am most grateful to you for giving me this wonderful opportunity. If you'll excuse me…"

Without another word, she turned from him and quickly left the room. At the sound of Edmund's following footsteps she took off into a run. Fortunately for her, she was familiar with the maze-like halls of the Opera House; Edmund was not. She managed to avoid him and any other person, and finally arrived at her room. As soon as the door shut behind her and she had locked it securely, the tears returned. Alone at last, she gave into the grief the cruel memories brought her.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Finally, I'm back! I apologize for the long delay (_very_ long…), but I hope you'll keep reviewing and encourage me to finish. The next chapter will be along shortly.


	5. Hidden Away

DISCLAIMER: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera in any way, shape or form, except for my original characters. I'm just a fan who'd like to see the story continued.

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Meg let her tears fall like rain, her sobs filling the room. She was both shamed and comforted by them. For four long years she had not cried, trapping traitorous feelings inside of her by sheer determination and strength. She sank to her knees now, crawling to the bed. There she rested her head in her arms upon it, freeing the sorrow she had caged for so long.

She didn't even hear him come. He seemed to step from the shadows themselves, his presence suddenly filling the room. "What did he do to you, Meg?" Erik's voiced reached through her sorrow, and she bolted to her feet. She ceased her crying immediately, hurriedly wiping at her tear-streaked face. There he stood, tall and dark… like a true phantom. His eyes watched her from beneath the stolen mask she had given back to him hours before.

"What are you doing here?" Meg demanded, her voice weak with tears. "I thought I was supposed to keep you a secret. I thought you wanted to be alone!" She couldn't keep the anger out of her voice. The last thing she wanted was for anyone to see her cry, especially _him._

"You are to keep me a secret," he responded. His rich, lilting voice was somehow comforting to hear. Christine had said he had the ability to use his voice in fantastic ways, whether singing like an angel or simply speaking with hypnotic effect. Meg was beginning to understand. Every time he spoke, she felt it, deep within her body, as though he could unlock one's soul with his voice. "Meg. Tell me…what did the good Monsieur do to make you cry this way?"

So Erik had seen. He must have been watching them, she realized. And why not? He knew the secrets of the Opera House better than any, living or dead. He'd created many of the traps and passageways himself with his own pure genius. Meg sat on the edge of the bed, turning her face away from him. This afforded him a profile view of her beautiful, tear-stained face. He watched her intently, wondering at the small feeling deep inside his stomach this little slip of a woman gave him.

"Why were you watching?" she demanded him. "I thought you were content to wallow in misery in your lair."

"Hardly," he scoffed. "Is it not my Opera House, mademoiselle? All of my Opera House is my lair. I go where I please and I _watch_ what I please. And if I decide to watch an exchange between the prima ballerina and her manager, then no one will tell me otherwise." His words had become harsh. Meg flinched, praying to the good Lord that she hadn't incurred his considerable wrath.

"Now, I will ask you again, Megan; What did that fool do to you that has caused you all of this grief?"

With a small sniffle, Meg cast her gaze to the floor before her, carefully avoiding Erik's gaze as she allowed her story to unfold. She spoke softly at first, barely above a whisper. "I met Edmund when I first arrived in England. He was the son of financiers for the Academy. I was alone and a bit frightened, having left the Opera House in such a hurry, and being alone in a new country.

"He was so kind to me, always eager to comfort me and to urge away my fears. It wasn't very long before I felt myself falling in love with him. His eyes, so very green…they had me mesmerized. After a few months, we became engaged."

Erik's interruption startled her. "Who knew of this engagement?" he demanded.

"No one," Meg was quick to assure him, her eyes darting to meet his stern gaze then back to the floor again. "A few suspected, I suppose, but we weren't anxious for anyone to find out too soon. After all, he was the son of wealthy parents, and I a dancer. To his parents, it would not have been a match made in Heaven."

She paused, waiting for any more questions. "Go on," he prodded, taking a step closer towards her. For the first time she didn't flinch when he approached. Erik, for his part, noticed this. He could not help but feel a small triumph in this. If his intention were to frighten her, after all, she'd know it.

Truth be told, he didn't know what his intentions were. For a very long time he had dwelt in the ruins of his kingdom, waiting for either a purpose or his eventual death. He had ventured very seldom through the rest of his domain, until the Opera had begun once again, coming under the direction of a new manager.

"I was sublimely happy, until the day I decided to surprise him with a picnic. It was a lovely Sunday afternoon. Edmund always spend Sunday afternoons working, or so he told me, but I thought that just once it would be nice to surprise him in such a way. When I opened the door to his private study, picnic basket in hand, I caught him with my dearest friend, a Miss Lydia Wentworth." Meg scoffed, her expression scornful. "I should have known. I mean, honestly, who spends their Sunday afternoons working? In any case, it must have been very pleasurable work, indeed."

She smiled through her tears, shaking her head sadly. "I was a fool. Edmund was young, handsome, rich…and I was the daughter of a ballet instructor. Yet somehow I believed that love was enough. I know better now, though. Love is never enough."

Erik could find no argument. After all, love had not been enough to win him Christine. Image had won that battle of the heart, and he was a doubly scarred man because of it. And yet, something inside of him cried out that that was not true at all. All of the beautiful things he had studied all his life—Art, literature, and, of course, music—had all had the same resounding answer; Love _is_ enough.

"You must not have loved him, then" Erik told her softly, warm wisdom in his voice. "For all this grief you have now, it could not be over love lost, but over the scorn of love denied. Perhaps you could have loved him, but you were spared. If only all of us were so lucky."

Meg blinked several times, the last of her tears gone. She looked to Erik, gently folding her arms across her chest. Again her heart reached out to him in pity. His story was a tragedy, the kind that belonged on the stage or in a book. She could not understand how he endured such a life.

"Did you love Christine?" The words left her lips before she even thought of them. Her soft brown eyes widened and her lips parted in disbelief. She half expected him to fly into a murderous rage. He did not, however. Instead, he looked at her incredulously, awed that she had been brave enough to ask such a question.

"Perhaps," he answered, absentmindedly running his gloved hand over a silver jewelry box placed atop the dresser beside him. He had burned for Christine; he had longed for her, even fought and killed for her. But did he love her? This question had haunted him for what felt like an eternity.

Meg stood, wanting to go to him but unsure why. "I'm sorry," she quickly apologized. "I shouldn't have asked you that. It's not a fair question."

"No," Erik conceded. He gently lifted the lid of the jewelry box, looking at all the pretty baubles Meg kept there. As he contemplated more on Christine, anger formed in the pit of his stomach, rising with each moment. "But then you always were a silly girl, weren't you, Little Meg?" he bit out, directing his anger towards she who had reminded him of it. "Running around like a little spy, getting in everyone's way. You hold some fault in my tragedy. Do you understand that?"

"What do you mean by that?" Meg demanded in both fear and denial, rising from the bed. "The only one who truly holds fault in your tragedy is yourself! When Christine denied you, then you should have let her go. The lengths that you went to to secure a love, which did not exist, are truly horrific! Do not think that anyone has forgotten your murderous acts!"

"No!" Erik practically roared. "Of course no one has forgotten my 'murderous acts,' not even I! Those, too, have been my constant companions these five years!" With a snarl he slammed the box's lid, destroying one of its hinges and causing the entire dresser to shake. Meg turned and raced for the door, almost certain that her life depended on escaping from Erik. Somehow she had forgotten that she was in the company of a very dangerous man, and now common sense screamed at her to fly for safety.

Erik was on her in a moment, grasping her by her arms and turning her around so she faced him. "Meg!" he growled, giving her a shake. "I'm not going to hurt you!" Before Meg had a chance to respond, Erik placed his hand over her mouth, silencing her. Footsteps approached Meg's room rapidly, followed by an urgent knock. Edmund had finally found his way to her room, it seemed.

Erik had only a brief moment to decide what to do next. He dropped his hand from Meg's face. She could reveal him if she desired, he knew, but it was too late now. His fate was in her hands. He still gripped her tightly, her body mere inches away from his. Her next words stunned him. "Hide me," she whispered desperately. "I cannot face Edmund, not now."

Erik nodded, taking her hand and leading her to the wall where the secret door lay hidden. After finding and pressing the switch he stepped into the dark passage, pulling her in behind him. The door shut silently, plunging them into pitch darkness. Meg was unaccustomed to such suffocating darkness, reaching out blindly for anything to keep her from panicking. Erik did what was natural, pulling her to him and wrapping his arm around her waist, steadying her against the surrounding blackness.

Edmund had by now forced his way into Meg's room. "Meg!" he called, stepping inside. "_Damn!_" He shut the door behind him, moving to the center of the room. His every move could be heard as he moved about the room, examining the broken jewelry box and running his fingers over her jewelry. Satisfied that the room was obviously empty, he left, slamming the door shut behind him.

Meg slowly exhaled, her heart beating wildly. She did not fight Erik's embrace, but treasured his strong presence. She feared Edmund far more than she feared Erik, truth be told. She had found courage to stand up to him once, but could she do it again? With time things would blow over. Edmund must be made to understand she wanted nothing to do with him, Meg knew. But until then, she could foresee many unpleasant encounters on the horizon.

Erik lingered in the dark, wondering at the feel of Meg beside him. At last he pushed the switch and the door slid open once more. Meg shielded her eyes against the light, letting Erik lead her back into her room. "Thank you," she told him softly, moving out of his hold. She went to the jewelry box, running her own graceful fingers over the broken hinge.

"I'll find you a replacement," Erik promised, eying the damage he had done. During their time in the passage together, he had observed every emotion Meg had unwittingly revealed. She was terrified, displaying more fear of Edmund than she had of himself. He wondered at this Monsieur Barton, curious to know the details of him that Meg had not revealed.

"Mademoiselle," he said, interrupting the silence. "You are under my protection, now." Without another word he reentered the passage, leaving a stunned Meg behind him. He certainly had a way, she marveled; one moment he was all mystery and softness, then the next he was passion and rage. But her fear of him was fading. She could not yet forget his deeds of the past, but she was willing to overlook them for now. Beside him in the passage, she had found safety in his strength. With an exhausted sigh, she made her way to the bed and fell upon it.

_I am under Erik's protection,_ were her last tired thoughts before she fell into a fitful sleep.

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AN: I'm finally able to update again. Sorry for the long waits in-between chapters. I'm trying really hard to keep up. Thanks to everyone who's reviewed! I _really_ appreciate the feedback! 


	6. Once Again

Unfortunately for Meg, the day was far from finished. She slept for but an hour, and her rest was fitful at best. She awoke at noon to a soft tapping at her door. With a grumble she rolled off the bed, yawning as she stretched her arms far above her. Her mind was fuzzy as she made her way to the door, opening it without a second thought as to who it might be.

A short woman stood in the hall. Perfect inky black curls spiraled to her shoulders, framing a pale face that was pretty, though perhaps not quite beautiful. Her eyes were blue and wide, her nose strong, and her mouth small and pink. Meg recognized her in an instant, pulling her to her in a tight embrace.

"Martine!" Meg practically shouted, laughing into her hair. "I cannot believe you are still here!" Martine Laurent pulled away, nodding vivaciously, a customary playful smirk transforming her features from merely pretty to spectacular. The petite costume mistress had lived all her life at the Opera Populaire, just like Meg. Martine's mother had been a fine costume mistress, manager to the seamstresses who created the opulent costumes that colored the stage. She'd been her mother's apprentice, becoming an even more gifted seamstress than her beloved predecessor.

Martine had been visiting her grandparents in the country during the Strange Incident. Meg hadn't seen her since, and had been sure that Martine had moved on after the fire. Meg was overjoyed to see her dear friend, pulling her into the room and examining her at arms length. "Martine, you look wonderful!" Meg gushed.

"And I can see the years have been kind to you, too," Martine laughed, giving Meg a hug of her own. "I thought you were gone forever! With the way you dance, we were all sure you'd stay in England and become a famous dancer."

Meg laughed, shaking her head. She closed the door, gesturing for Martine to sit on the bed. "It was time for me to come home," she answered simply. "And I see that you came back, too. I guess none of us can leave the Opera."

"Except La Carlotta, thank God. Once the Opera House was rebuilt, I received a letter from Monsieur Barton himself, inviting me to return and take my mother's old job." She sat on the bed, leaning back on her hands. "My mother has refused to ever return, but I was more than happy to come home."

"I cannot blame your mother," Meg sympathized, taking a seat on the bed beside her. "So much happened while you were away."

"So I was told. But then again, Mother always was very excitable. She's now happily settled in the country with my grandparents. She certainly didn't want me to return to the Opera House, but I was determined. She writes to me daily, and each letter is filled with warnings against The Opera Ghost."

"The Opera Ghost is gone," Meg assured her. "I went down below with the others the night of the fire. They destroyed everything they could find. He has certainly left."

"Wouldn't bother me if he were still here," Martine said, shrugging. "Unless he suddenly took an interest in the costumes made, I'm sure he'd never bother me."

"Actually," Meg said, beginning to laugh, "the Opera Ghost sent a series of letters to your mother regarding the costumes for Don Juan Triumphant. I understand she threw fits that rivaled La Carlotta's when she read them." Martine giggled with her, and they laughed until their sides hurt. They fell back onto the bed together, like they had as girls.

Eyes cast to the ceiling, they continued their conversation. "How is Christine?" Martine asked. Christine and Martine had never been really close, though they were still friends. Martine knew only details her mother had provided, and Madam Laurent, although beloved by all who knew her, had a tendency to sensationalize her stories.

"Christine is very happy," said Meg. Her thoughts turned to Erik. She prayed that he was not listening, unlikely as that was. Talk of Christine would surely still be painful to him. "She and Raoul are settled at his estate. She writes me often and is constantly telling me how very much in love they are."

"Well, I'm happy you're keeping in touch, and I'm happy for Christine. The Count de Chagny is a fine man. They must be very happy together."

"Yes," Meg said distractedly. She couldn't stop thinking of Erik. Was he nearby? He had said she was under his protection. Did that mean he would be constantly watching her?

"Meg?" Martine interrupted her thoughts. "What do you think of the new manager? He is everything charming and proper, that is obvious. But, please don't think ill of me when I say this, I don't like him very much. Call it…oh, I don't know, intuition, but something about him bothers me."

Meg smiled, pleased but not entirely surprised at Martine's uncanny ability to uncover the true nature of people. "I don't like him either," Meg told her, throwing her arm over her head.

Martine rolled onto her side, propping up on her elbow to study her friend's face. "What is it that you aren't telling me, Meg? Even if we haven't seen each other in over five years, you're still as transparent as water. I can see that something is troubling you. You look so tired, Meg. Do tell me what's wrong."

Meg needed no further urging. "We were engaged, Edmund and I. In England. Matters arose, and the engagement was broken. Let's just say that seeing him here does not thrill me. Especially when he claims that he still loves me!" Meg scoffed, turning her head back and forth in frustration. "My own mother doesn't even know. Only you and…Only you know."

"Megan Elizabeth Giry, there is more to your story. I see fear in your eyes."

Meg turned her face, hiding the pain in her eyes. "I can't tell you, Martine. Not yet." Meg sniffled a bit, wiping at an escaped tear. "I'll tell you in time. But for now, it's in the past."

Martine accepted her answer, knowing that, in time, Meg would surely tell her. For now, her instinctive dislike of Edmund deepened. Silence engulfed them, and Martine allowed Meg a moment to collect herself.

"Come," Martine bid, sitting up and sliding off the bed. Her tone was lighter again, her cheerful mood infectious. "I didn't come just to catch up, even though it has been rather nice. As costume mistress, it's my job to get you fitted for the upcoming production."

Meg rose and joined her. "Oh, how I love costumes," she sighed happily.

"I'm about to make you giddy. Not only am I going to make you the most beautiful costumes you've ever seen, but I've come to show you to your dressing room." She smiled in anticipation of Meg's reaction.

She wasn't disappointed. Meg's mouth dropped, then turned into a bright smile. "My dressing room? My dressing room!" Meg had not stopped to think about all the wonderful advantages that came with being the prima ballerina. Taking her by the hand, Martine opened the door and led Meg into the hallway. They chatted like school girls, instantly renewing their friendship of so long ago.

The Opera House had hundreds of dressing rooms. They were close to the stage, situated on several floors, and of varying sizes and class. Chorus girls never had their own dressing rooms; Christine Daae had been fortunate enough to earn one by her incredible talent.

When Martine stopped at one of the dressing rooms, Meg was sure she had to be mistaken. "Martine, this isn't the Prima Ballerina's dressing room. This is La Carlotta's old dressing room. It's for the diva!"

"Monsieur Barton's orders," Martine said, raising her eyebrows. Pulling out a black key ring with loads of keys, not unlike the one Madame Giry had, she unlocked the door with a distinctive _click_. She pushed the door open and stepped in, pulling Meg in behind her. Both women stopped and stared in awe.

La Carlotta had done everything in her considerable power to make her dressing room as opulent and majestic as possible. It appeared that in her haste to leave the Opera House, she had forgotten to collect her things from her dressing room. The walls were a decadent pink, covered with grand portraits of the old diva, herself. There were no less than three divans, each covered in white furs and colorful cashmeres.

As decadent as the room was, it appeared to merely be the sitting room. The door to the right led to the actual dressing table, which in itself was so large, it expanded across an entire wall. It was rich mahogany, with drawers filled to the brim with old chocolates and pungent perfumes, abandoned too in Carlotta's flight from the Opera House. "Martine," Meg said breathlessly, her chocolaty eyes wide. "This is…big."

"Very big," Martine said dryly. The costume mistress took a turn in place, arms folded. "Good luck making this dressing room look tasteful. Carlotta's décor is like her singing; too much." At Meg's silence, Martine continued chatting to herself. "The walls could be redone. Perhaps something less…God-awful. Oh, and both fur _and_ cashmere! What a novel idea! Surely Carlotta couldn't possibly have been warmed enough with just _one_." Rifling through the drawers of the dressing table, she'd pulled out a large gold bottle of perfume. Taking a deep sniff, she promptly began to choke, shoving the bottle back into the drawer with distaste. "No wonder she smelled like a whore."

"Really, Martine," Meg interrupted, struggling to still her laughter. "I know you hated Carlotta, but she's gone now. You don't need to insult her long after she's gone."

"Of course I do!" Martine insisted merrily, flipping open a retrieved chocolate box and shoving a piece into her mouth. "God, this is good. No wonder she couldn't keep her figure." In a conspiratory whisper, her mouth filled with chocolate, she added, "Mother said Carlotta was frequently breaking ribs because of her corsets. Always wanting it tighter, never wanting anyone to know that she wasn't perfectly thin."

Meg was laughing so hard by now, her side was beginning to ache. "Martine, stop, I beg you!" she giggled, golden tendrils falling across her eyes as she shook with merriment. "Aren't you supposed to get me costumed?"

"Oh, damn, that's right," Martine said dramatically. She threw a hand across her forehead in mock despair. "Guess I'll have to journey through the Opera House to get my things. I'll be back before you know it." Kissing the still-laughing Meg briefly on the cheek, she ducked out of the dressing room. Her footsteps echoed down the hall until they were gone, silence reigning in the dressing room. Meg was still chuckling lightly when she heard the distinct click of the lock. Her laughter stopped immediately, and she froze where she was. She was facing the dressing table, and she cast her eyes about in a desperate attempt to find some sort of a weapon. She could think of only one person who would sneak into her dressing room and lock the door: Edmund. She would not be taken by surprise by him ever again.

Feigning ignorance, she reached into the drawer Martine had been rummaging through. She hoped to act as though she hadn't heard the lock, though her hands did tremble. Taking out Martine's discarded perfume bottle, she pulled off the cap, holding it up as though she were about to sprits herself with the awful brew. Instead, with speed born of desperation, she turned about and hurled it through the doorway and at the intruder.

Erik deftly stepped aside, allowing the bottle to crash against the wall. Meg's expression morphed from one of fear and determination into sheer shock in an instant. Her jaw dropped, and she waited, barely breathing, for Erik to make a move. "My God, Mademoiselle," he said softly, without contempt of any kind. "That is by far the most wretched stench I've ever had the displeasure of smelling."

The corners of Meg's rosy mouth twitched. Laughter tumbled out, a mixture of true humor and near-hysteria. Erik had raised a gloved hand to his face, trying to keep the horrible smell from entering his nostrils. Cloak billowing, he hastened toward Meg, shutting the door behind him as though Satan himself was coming after him. "No wonder Monsieurs Andre and Firmin let her sing. She probably threatened to spray them with that filth."

"Erik," Meg said between peals of laughter. "What are you doing here? How long have you been listening?" Her laughter quieted, then stopped at this thought.

"I told you. You're under my protection now."

"Protection, yes. But that does not mean you have to go everywhere I do!" she protested.

"Need I remind you that this is _my_ Opera?" he told her coolly, casually moving to inspect the contents of the dressing table. Pulling out a small box of chocolates, he shook his head ruefully. "Don't eat these," he warned. "I poisoned these. These could be the reason La Carlotta croaked. Or perhaps her drink caused that." At the blonde's questioning look, he nodded before adding, "I'm thorough in my ways."

Indeed.

Meg needed no further details. She remembered with clarity the night Carlotta had humiliated herself on-stage and nearly destroyed her career. It had gone down in history, not only in the Opera House, but also in Paris itself. "Don't change the subject, she said, her brow furrowing. "I am grateful for your protection. But I…"

"But you what, Little Meg? You hate the idea of me being around every corner, behind every wall? You needn't bother. I've always been nearby. Whether it be you, or anyone else, I keep a careful watch on those who inhabit my palace." This was getting Meg nowhere. Grudgingly, she was getting used to Erik's changes of mood. He was nearly impossible to speak with in the current mood he was in. To question him now would be to question his role in the Opera House, his 'palace.' She knew better than that.

Another question arose then: What to talk about? She found comfort in his presence. In some ways, she even felt flattered that he had appeared again, just for her. And then there was something else…a fluttering feeling deep within her. This was a new sensation, a curious feeling she'd never known before. It was faint, but with the promise of becoming something more, like a seedling buried in the frosty ground of early spring. It was firmly pushed it aside, and Meg prayed for the sake of her sanity it would disappear for good.

She crossed the distance to Erik, taking the box of compromised chocolates from his gloved fingers and carrying them like a diseased rodent to a small waste bin. Hopefully the maids wouldn't get curious and try one. If they did…well, never mind that.

Erik stood by, a silent sentinel, watching her closely. Was there something he wished to say? Something on his mind?

If there was, his hesitation cost him. The door was promptly knocked upon, and Meg whirled around to face Erik, golden curls flying, only to find he'd disappeared. Magician, illusionist or true specter, none could doubt his miraculous abilities to melt into the very walls.

"Martine," Meg whispered, taking another quick glance through the chamber to ensure the Phantom…_Erik_…had left no clues of his quick visit. Satisfied, she smiled, helpless, opening the door to welcome her friend back into the dressing room. "Well, that was fast—oh!"

It was not Martine, but Edmund who stood in the doorway, arms clasped behind his back. "So, here you are," he said softly, nodding for emphasis. "I've been searching for you all day. Might I come in?"

Meg was fully prepared to say no, but Edmund strode past her into the room before she could utter a protest. "I hope you enjoy your dressing room. I reserved it for someone special, someone with talent…and then you arrived. Quite providential, really."

"Quite," was all Meg could manage, displeasure practically dripping from her voice. Edmund either failed to detect it or simply chose to ignore it. Her jade eyes darted about the room, both frightened and hopeful that she'd catch a glimpse of Erik somewhere, anywhere. It was very unlikely that he had fled entirely, but she still felt a particular dread that he might have. Edmund by now had made himself completely at home, stripping off his short gloves and running a finger lightly over the packed contents of the room.

"Dear Lord, Meg," Edmund began as his nose wrinkled. "What on earth is that horrid smell? It's like…wet dog and strawberries. God-awful, really. I do hope it's not a new perfume you're trying out. You'll keep everyone at least twenty feet from you."

_If only that were true now,_ Meg thought desperately. "It's not my perfume, Monsieur Barton. It was Madam Carlotta's, and I assure you that it has made its final appearance."

"I truly hope so. It's Edmund, Meg."

"I think, under the circumstances, that Monsieur Barton is entirely appropriate."

Edmund stiffened a bit, obvious displeased with the way things were continuing to turn out. As far as he was concerned, he had done everything considerable and right on his part with the lovely Miss Giry. She was being ridiculously uncooperative, damn it, and all of his carefully made plans were going to crumble if she didn't come around.

"Meg." Gone was his false friendly voice, replaced with one much harder and more determined. "Meg, you must end this. I don't know how to prove to you that I'm a changed man, but you're making this incredibly difficult for me."

"Which is no less than you deserve," she returned swiftly, turning as though to leave.

Edmund would not allow it. In two quick steps, he reached out to her and grabbed her wrists, whipping her around and jerking her close to him. She struggled against him, but was no match for either Edmund or his determination. "Listen, Meg," he gritted out, fighting to keep her under control without hurting her. "I mean what I said. I love you! I love you, my…oof…darling, and I only want to…see…you…happy!"

He accentuated his final word by draping an arm around her waist and forcing her against him. His head descending toward hers, and his lips took hers by force.

His violent kiss ended almost before it started. With an animalistic growl, Erik ripped the other man away from Meg and flung him across the room. Edmund crashed into a life-size portrait of La Carlotta, and sank to the floor. He was unconscious, a state which very likely had saved his life.

Before Meg could breathe, Erik took her by the arm and led her into the adjoining room. His touch was far gentler than Edmund's, and Meg felt no fear by it. In a moment, Erik had triggered another hidden door, and ushered her into it without any explanation. It closed silently, leaving the pair in thick darkness. He stepped with confidence through the darkness, knowing his way as clearly as he could in any dazzling daylight.

They were descending, down stairs and decline, across wooden floors and stone steps.

Down once more… 


	7. Frogs, Truths and Plans

"I'm sorry I took so long, Meg. If this damned Opera House wasn't so large, I'd have been much faster--" Martine stopped short, allowing the door behind her to swing shut. "Meg?" The room appeared empty, and the silence was disturbing. Stepping further into the room, her eyes beheld Edmund's crumpled form, partially hidden by the large framed picture that had been torn from the wall.

"Monsieur Barton!" Martine gasped, setting down the baskets of supplies she held in her arms. Approaching him cautiously, she stooped to lift the gilded frame off of the fallen man. She grunted in her effort, struggling under the weight of the grand portrait. Edmund stirred, and his eyes slowly opened.

Everything was a blur for the fallen man. A woman's figure towered over him, and he smiled dazedly at her. "There you are, Meg," Edmund said to Martine. Martine was no nurse, but she could tell by the way Monsieur Barton's words were slurring that he had sustained some sort of a head injury. It was probably nothing more than a concussion. All the same, and even though she didn't particularly care for her employer, she felt obligated to take him to one of the Opera House's nurses. Wherever Meg was, Martine had a sneaking suspicion that she had some involvement in the mishap that had taken place in the seamstress's absence.

"Come, Monsieur Barton. Let us go visit our friend, the nurse. She will see to that growing lump on your head."

"Whatever are you talking about, Meg?" Edmund asked with a laugh, rising sloppily with Martine's help. "I feel fine. I don't need to see the bloody old nurse, my darling girl."

Martine slammed the stumbling man against her with unnecessary force, guiding him toward the door and into the hallway. "I am not Meg, and I am not your 'darling girl.' Neither is Meg, for that matter." Edmund continued to laugh, looking at the entire situation as one big, blurry joke. It wasn't long before Martine's patience was at an end.

Pausing to catch her breath, Martine had no qualms about letting Edmund sink to the floor. He sat cross-legged, staring at his hands as though he had never seen them before. The same silly, stupid grin remained on his face. Perhaps, Martine mused, his head injuries were a bit more severe than she had thought. It likely wasn't permanent, unfortunately.

"All right, Monsieur Barton, get up. We need to keep go—CROAK!" Her hands flew to her mouth. Had that absurd noise really come from her? Edmund laughed a little, rising to his feet. Shaking her head, Martine threw her arm around Edmund's waist and continued to lead him along. She saw nothing humorous about the situation, and was fully prepared to tell him so.

"Really, Monsieur Barton, this is not—CROAK!" There it was again! That awful noise was coming from her very lips! Edmund roared with hysterical laughter and, try as she might, Martine could not utter a single syllable more without more croaks spilling from her lips. Both enraged and alarmed, she hobbled onwards toward the nurse's office, every last ounce of her self control focused on not killing Edmund to silence his peals of laughter. It looked like there would be two afflicted patients for the nurse today, and it would be no easy task to take care of either of them.

* * *

It was amazing to Meg how harsh the light could be after roaming through peaceful, silent darkness. Their journey over, Erik apparently recovered far quickly than she did, and led her confidently as she struggled to see clearly through the candlelight's glare. When her eyes did adjust, she found that she was being led to the great black bed that she had found herself lying upon not days before. It was the oddest thing, but she felt no fear--none at all. Before, she had awoken and believed herself prisoner on that very bed. But now, she understood that she was a guest, and not a prisoner.

Very gently, Erik assisted Meg as she sat on the edge of the bed. That was all the help she would get, for no sooner had she sat, then he had stalked off in the other direction. Puzzled, she watched him glide away from her, cloak billowing in the mysterious candlelight that surrounded the Opera Ghost's home. Before long, he had disappeared into the darkness surrounding the strange haven, and Meg was left to wonder at her surroundings.

It appeared to be the same strange lair that Meg had beheld five years ago, though much was changed. The uneven stone that served as the floor met the water's edge not far from Meg's sight. There was a misty, mysterious scent all around, as though a rainstorm had just passed through, and the numerous candles that bathed the cavern in light mostly resided along the path beside the water.

When she had seen Erik's home before, it had been filled with many strange and wonderful things, each meticulously placed and kept with the utmost care. It pained her to see that most of the marvelous oddities were gone now, undoubtedly taken and destroyed by the mob. There were only a few pieces left now; a candelabra here, a worn, thick book there. Even the furnishings had been practically picked clean. An elaborate desk remained, its surface tidily housing several sheets of parchment, an ink pot and a long black feathered quill. What had once been a subterranean palace had been reduced to be simple, sparse.

The bed, Meg noted as she rose and examined it, was entirely untouched. Perhaps the mob had been unwilling to disturb the bed the Opera Ghost may have slept in, strange as it sounded. Did he sleep here? Meg wondered. Is this where he lay when sleep overcame him, alone and undisturbed? To her, it was doubtful that he slept at all. He had been heard, observed and even felt at all hours across the Opera House, especially whenever Christine had been involved.

Christine. Had she slept on this bed, too? A strange wave of jealousy washed over Meg. Christine had been brought by the Phantom twice to his enchanted domain. It was not difficult to imagine Christine's beautiful form reposing upon the great, soft bed, while Erik watched over her, entranced by her beauty. Had he touched her then? Had he reached out a gloved hand and gently, so very gently caressed her cheek? Had he dared to imagine stealing a kiss from her lovely mouth while she slept?

Meg was fairly boiling with jealousy by now, and a longing unlike anything she had ever known pulled at her heart. What had incited these emotions in her? She was frightened and disturbed by them, an unwilling participant in the storm she was caught up in.

She had to leave. What a fool she had been to allow a known murderer to lead her away from all hope of safety. Here, she was at his will, and could have no hope of escaping should the need arise. Already on her feet, she paced like a caged animal, her desperation escalating with each lithe step. She was almost ready to bolt when Erik suddenly returned, striding toward her with such effortless grace.

In an instant, all of the fear and despair threatening to drown Meg rushed away, replaced with an odd feeling of contentment. She smiled at him gently, and relief shown in her eyes.

Erik stopped, struck by the genuine smile that she had given him. It was that of an angel's, he was sure, and her golden halo of hair and warm, shining brown eyes only confirmed this. Her thoughts may have been of Christine moments before, but his thoughts were of her, and only her.

His softly spoken words broke the silence. "Monsieur Barton will be fine. Your friend Martine has taken him to the nurse. She didn't, by any chance, eat anything that was Carlotta's, did she?"

"You don't mean…"

"I'm afraid so. Croaking like a frog, all the way there."

Meg looked horrified at first, but was soon bursting with laughter. "Poor Martine! She will never eat chocolate again!"

Erik could not help but smile, too, though he did not laugh at the matter. Meg was doing enough laughing for them both, and her mirth echoed all around them. There had never been laughter in his home, never once. Meg's whole-hearted giggles were the first to grace it.

Her laughter died away, sooner than Erik liked, as the reality of the situation was dawning on her. "Why do you men always shake women? It's not as if there isn't some other way to get our attention. I am not a rag doll. I can be reasoned with.

"Apparently, the good manager did not think so. He only ever treats you as a doll." Erik had not forgotten how he himself had given Meg a good shake, and had the decency to regret it. He had no desire to treat her ill, but just the opposite. His desire was to help her, protect her. He would not search out the reason he so desired this, and chalked it up to gratitude for all the little chit's mother had done for him. That explained it easily enough. No matter how beautiful, how enticing she was proving to be, he would not be drawn into the foolish pitfalls of infatuation again, never again.

"Sit," he commanded harshly, and Meg could find no reason not to obey him. Why was he so suddenly angry? Had her good humor upset him? She couldn't imagine why. These sudden changes of mood in him were difficult to understand. One moment, he was all confidence and full of dry, intelligent humor. The next, he was like an angry boy, or cold and domineering. Meg sat there in silence, hands folded demurely in her lap. It would be best, she decided, to wait patiently until his anger abetted, as she was sure it would.

"I don't think you've told me everything that transpired between you and your former _lover_. What are you hiding?"

Meg's eyes flared, and she fairly bristled with indignation. She was on her feet now, and all hopes of patiently enduring his dark mood were dashed. "Do not assume, sir, that we were intimate simply because we were in love. There is still some purity that exists between a man and a woman in love!"

"How could you have loved _him, _Meg?" Erik demanded, slowly circling her. "I don't believe for an instant that you ever had any feelings for that vain fool! He could have nothing to offer you, and you could have nothing for him."

"That shows how much you know!" Meg yelled in return, countering his hawk-like behavior by circling him in turn. "It would surprise you to know that I was fully prepared to give my heart to him. It was his for the taking!" Why was she so intent upon gaining the upper hand? There was no prize to be won, no audience to impress. But she was tired of his bullying. She knew she had been foolish to love Edmund, but it was absolutely inappropriate of him to suggest that she never did….Wasn't it?

"Well that was a damned foolish thing of you to do!" Erik burst out, running a hand through his hair in agitation.

"I never said it wasn't," Meg agreed bitterly, quietly. "We cannot choose who we love. You, of all people, should know that."

Erik took in a sharp breath, and Meg tensed for his reaction. Surely, once again, she'd gone too far. But the reprimand never came. Erik remained silent and still. Meg's heart ached, yearning for something she could never have. She would not acknowledge this longing, would not even begin to probe it. She had lost her heart to Edmund, and had found only pain. She had vowed to never lose her heart again.

"Meg, I want to show you something." Erik's words startled her, and she could only meekly nod in reply. Erik held out his hand to her, and she took it without hesitation. He led her gently along the water's edge, past the sparse furnishings and to a cold stone wall. Hanging from this particular spot was a rippling swath of black velvet. Erik pulled it aside, revealing a tall golden frame. The frame had once housed a tall mirror, which was evidenced by the shards of glass that still rested along the inner edges. The frame now served a doorway of sorts, and beyond it a dim light could be seen.

Erik stepped through first, and then carefully assisted Meg through. The passageway was not very long and ultimately led to a large rectangular room. In awe, Meg looked around her. Here, she realized, was where Erik had made his home. All along the walls hung tall, shining mirrors, each hung with golden drapes to create the illusion of windows. Delicately carved tables stood before each mirror, and atop each one burned a single candle. There was a door, a true, unhidden door against the wall, something which Meg found very odd. It was quickly forgotten as she continued her assessment of the room. In one of the far corners was a grand four poster bed, totally masculine in design. Silk pillows of rich burgundy lay across a comforter of black, while the dark wood posters of the bed cast long shadows across the stone floor.

The crowning glory of the room was on the opposite wall from the bed. Set near the wall was a majestic grand piano. Its black surface seemed to absorb the candlelight, while the white keys shone brilliantly in the soft glow. Meg moved toward the piano directly, slowly stepping around it. Recognition dawned on her, and she smiled in wonder at Erik.

"I know this piano. This was in the orchestra pit. The old pianist used to let me sit nearby when he practiced late at night. However did you…"

Erik took his seat at the piano, arranging his cloak so that it fell over the back. "No need to bore you with the details of how it arrived here, Meg. It miraculously survived any damage from the fire, and I thought it deserved to be removed from the rubble. There was a time after the fire, you see, when I was the only soul left in the Opera House. Now, I want you to listen to something."

Meg nodded eagerly, and Erik began. As his fingers pressed into the keys, the most beautiful music Meg had ever heard issued forth from the instrument. He did not sing, nor did he need to. The melody soared all around them, rising and falling in chords and runs that breached into Meg's very soul. The song was at once celestial and intensely, aching painful. She closed her eyes slowly, allowing the music to rush around her and swallow her up. He did not sing, but she heard the words.

The music ended, and Meg felt herself falling. Strong arms reached out and caught her.

Erik had seen her falling from the corner of her eye, and had moved with great speed to catch her. He slowly sank to the floor now, still clutching her to him. Looking down on her, he could not help but examine the angel he cradled in his arms. Her face rested against his chest, and a look of peace crossed her angelic features. How delicate she was, so very soft and delicate. Erik inhaled deeply. Her golden hair smelled faintly of honeysuckle. In careful motions, he pulled one of his black gloves off, and gently rubbed one of those golden locks between his fingers. As he had expected, her hair was as soft as silk.

Erik was undone. A fire burned in him, flames that he recognized from long ago. Where was the resolve he had felt mere moments before? How could he feel such longing for a woman who was so different from Christine? Christine had been all innocence and naivety, eager to please and so easy to control. Meg was innocent in her ways, too, but without being docile and willfully submissive to the demands of those around her. His own emotions baffled him. After Christine, he had been sure that he would never love again. One did not, he was sure, recover from such passion as he had felt for the chorus girl. How then did he now begin to feel that he could perhaps love again? How could he even dare to believe such a thing?

Meg was awakening. Her brilliant brown eyes fluttered open, and confusion shone from them. She found herself to be lying partially on the floor, gathered in Erik's strong arms. She could hear his steady heartbeat, and its strong rhythm inexplicably comforted her.

"Was my composition so terrible?" Erik teased, looking down on her with mirth in his eyes. Meg was more awake now, and to Erik's disappointment, she sat up quickly and moved out of his protective embrace.

"Thank you for breaking my fall," she said sheepishly, moving a small distance away from him and drawing her knees to her chest. "Your music was…it was…" How could she hope to adequately describe the ecstasy his music had filled her with? "It was so beautifully truthful," she said at last.

"I had a reason in playing it for you. You said before that we cannot choose who we love. You are right to refer to my love for Christine as an example. When Christine left and my world lay in ruin, I brought that piano here and composed that piece. I poured all of my pain, all of my hate and loathing and resentment into it. With those dark emotions, I added the feelings of joy that love had offered me, even if they had been ripped away from me."

"I felt it, all of it, when I listened," Meg said softly. "But it wasn't like feeling _your_ emotions. I felt those same emotions, as I had felt them, after Edmund. I relived all of my old pain as I listened."

"I am sorry," Erik replied.

"No, you don't understand," Meg hastily interjected. "I did feel the pain, but with it… Do you not realize the beautiful hope that you have woven into your music? Can you not hear the angels sing, ready to lift you up and help you along? It was that feeling, and not the pain, that moved me so. I did not faint because of any pain, I assure you."

Erik was silent for a long moment, and he regarded Meg with a burning intensity. At length, he spoke again. "I would not will you to faint, I hope you understand, but you have paid me the greatest compliment by it. I can see that you feel music as I do, in your very soul. To some, music is only uplifting when it has the proper words to accompany it. Lyrics are the only way they can understand anything, and unless they instantly memorize the words, they cannot take anything with them when the music ends. But for us, the message is in the melody, the very fabric of the piece. It is there that the purest truths lie."

"It is that way for me when I dance," Meg confided. "The music…it fills me, wraps itself around me and leads me, guides me. It is something that is difficult to explain."

"And yet," Erik said as he rose, "it is what sets you apart from other dancers. I have not seen you dance in many years, but even when you were a chorus girl, I could see that you were apart from the other dancers. Just like your mother."

Though he hated to see her go, Erik knew it was time to take Meg back up. He longed to speak to her more, to hear her thoughts on so many other subjects, but time was short. Monsieur Barton and Martine would have been tended by the nurse by now, and would begin a thorough search for their missing Meg soon. If he did not return Meg now, he would perhaps have a war on his hands sooner than he anticipated.

He offered his hand to Meg, and she took it and rose from the floor. She, too, knew it was time for her to leave. "Thank you for sharing our music with me, Erik," she told him sweetly and sincerely.

Erik could only nod, and began leaving to search out a blindfold. He stopped, however, pivoting around to face his beautiful guest. "I'm not going to blindfold you this time. I ask only that you never try to come here uninvited. To wander the passageways alone is dangerous, at best. You must have me as a guide if you want to be welcomed here again."

Meg nodded, touched by the trust he was placing in her. He offered his hand, which she was surprised to find gloveless, and they began their return.

* * *

"Find her!" Edmund roared at the four confused workers he had called to his office. "Search every inch of this damned Opera House, quickly! The moment you locate Mademoiselle Giry, bring her here at once!" The frightened workers nodded, then hastened away to begin their task. Edmund sank into his chair, massaging his aching head. It had not taken long for him to regain his composure once the nurse administered to him, and after thoroughly questioning the little Costume Mistress, he had began his search for Meg like a man possessed.

He remembered little that had transpired in her dressing room. He knew they had quarreled again, and he knew that he had been found by the dark-haired seamstress unconscious and alone. Vague recollections fluttered across his mind's eye: A figure in black, a cry of outrage, and darkness overcoming him. None of it made any sense to him, for he knew it had been only and Meg in the room at the time. Meg could not possibly possess the strength to knock him unconscious, so what had happened? And where had Meg fled?

Perhaps it would be less frustrating for the man if it hadn't been the second time Meg had disappeared into thin air. The Opera House was large, yes, but with so many people filling it, it was not a difficult thing to locate missing persons. The moment he found her, Edmund was going to have to begin all over again. His desire for Meg was unquenchable, outweighing even the curiosity that filled him over the day's mishap. If he wanted any answers, he would have to be crafty about it, or risk losing even more ground with his lovely little dancer.

He had never expected to see Meg again after their brief romance, but was pleased with the reunion all the same. The sins of the past, he was determined, would be forgotten. He would woo Mademoiselle Giry and have her love again. Together, they would bring a new era of music and pleasure to Paris. For years to come, Edmund Barton and his charming wife would be remembered for bringing culture and delight to the city through the Opera House.

He had all the power he needed. Nothing would stop him now.

* * *

AN: Thanks for ALL of the reviews! In response to a more popular question, rest assured that I plan on finishing this story. I know I take a long time posting chapters, but I try to be careful about my writing. Thank you again for your reviews! 


	8. Explanations and Revelations

DISCLAIMER: As a reminder, I do not own anyone of these wonderful characters except for my own original creations.

* * *

Meg had not been back for five minutes before she was urgently ushered into Monsieur Barton's office. Feeling weak and fatigued, she summoned all of the courage and composure she could muster, and even now found herself before one disturbingly calm Manager.

His calm expression was merely a façade. Tired as she was, Meg could easily sense the raw intensity that burned beneath his exterior. There was a sizable lump on his head, giving him an odd, unbalanced look. Since she had known him, Edmund had only appeared in public in the most pristine of conditions, always polished and primped as he supposed his class and society demanded. It was vaguely humorous that even his carefully combed hair could not conceal the injurious blemish.

"Ah, Meg!" he proclaimed cheerily, rising immediately when she nearly stumbled into the room from the haste of her escorts. The door had been shut behind her, and even the spacious interior of his office felt far too close for her comfort. To be alone in any room with Edmund was practically more than she could bear.

"I am glad you've come," Edmund continued in a frighteningly amiable tone of voice, assisting the blonde most unnecessarily to a waiting chair. He did not return to his own chair across the desk, as Meg had hoped, but remained besides her, leaning against the desk's dark and immaculate surface. His hand seized hers immediately, and she knew it would be fruitless to fight him. _Let him have this one victory_, she supposed. _It is the only one he shall ever gain over me._

There was no hope for it. Meg had to feign some sort of concern for Edmund's standout injury. She'd been present when it had been inflicted, and he knew it. In fact, Meg was not entirely sure _how_ much he knew. Had he seen Erik? Was he aware of the Phantom's interference? Such torturous thoughts had been plaguing the poor girl's mind since her return, and she could not bear to put off the answers any longer.

"Monsieur Barton, I am sorry to see you injured," she lied. Her words were gentle enough to imitate true sympathy, yet had just enough of a cold edge to discourage the determined man from expecting any true friendliness.

Edmund nodded patiently, stroking her graceful hand in a gesture that was surely meant to be reassuring. Meg found it revolting.

"Don't be alarmed, my dear girl," he responded, his tone of voice positively fatherly now. "My injury is not grievous, but I am grateful for your concern. The woman with the dark hair, the one who sews, she saw me to the nurse. I'm only surprised that you yourself weren't there." He did not go on, but undoubtedly he was waiting for answers. Meg drew in a discreet breath, and began an explanation that she prayed would be found satisfactory to Edmund.

"I suppose I owe you an apology," she began, pulling her hand free at last. "We shouldn't have quarreled, and I'm sorry we did." Another blatant lie. Even now, if she hadn't been so tired, she'd rather quarrel than have a calm exchange with him. To her eyes, his every gesture, look and word was deceit.

"Pushing you was beneath me, I admit, but I never expected you to stumble on the divan, as you did." There, her lie was done. Unless he pressured her more, she need not make any more insufferable apologies to the fool beside her.

Edmund, however, was far from satisfied. With a smile still plastered on his face, he began to pace the room. As he carefully and deliberately moved from one side of the room to the other, Meg felt more and more like his unprotected prey. She could not see him as he moved behind her, but she could feel his eyes upon her. For one terrifying moment, she truly believed that she would never be free from his scrutiny, no matter where she went in the Opera House.

"I wonder if you'd enlighten me a bit more, Meg," Edmund said softly from behind her. Heaven help her, but his hands were suddenly on either side of her chair, and she could feel the warmth of his body as he leaned over her. His breath was very near to her ear as he continued, and it took the remaining shreds of her strength not to recoil at his close proximity.

"You must understand, my dear, that I'm not angry with you. I behaved very badly, and for that I sincerely apologize. I had no right to…to…"

"Manhandle me?" Meg supplied.

"Quite frankly, yes," Edmund acquiesced. "I am truly, deeply sorry. But I'm afraid that I'm having a difficult time remembering much after that. You say that you pushed me away, and I stumbled?"

"Yes," she hastily replied, her body tense and defensive. "You stumbled then fell against the wall. The picture came down on you, and I could not revive you. I went to fetch help, and…" Inspiration at last struck her. "I sent Martine to you! That is, Mademoiselle Laurent, the Costume Mistress."

That lie had entered her mind a mere instant before she spoke it aloud. Dear God, what had she gotten herself into now? She didn't know how much Martine had told the Manager. Was Edmund aware that Martine had stumbled upon him by accident? If it were thus, then Meg had just revealed a fatal flaw.

But luck was with her, it appeared, for Edmund seemed to accept the explanation straightaway. "Ah, so you went to fetch help," he murmured, vaguely aware of how Meg shied away from him as best as she could. "Well, do I remember our…argument, and I do remember the strange woman who found me. But it seems to me that there is something missing from this story. Are you quite sure that nothing else happened? Are you telling me everything, Meg?"

She could not see his eyes, but Meg knew that the green orbs must have shone with suspicion, mistrust, even anger. She felt that surely, with her old, estranged lover trapping her so, and with his cool, deliberate words that she would soon break under the pressure. It was all too much for her, moving too quickly. Had it really been only a few short moments since she'd left the presence of the mysterious Phantom? Had only two short days passed since her return to Paris? How could so many grave and strange events occur in such a short time and with no prior warning?

"I have told you everything, Monsieur Barton," Meg confirmed weakly, enormously grateful as Edmund pulled away from her chair. "Now I ask only that you release me from any more questioning. I am tired and strained from these…these events."

"Of course," Edmund said gentlemanly, returning to her side to assist her from the chair. She shook her golden head almost frantically, avoiding any physical contact with him. Meg needed freedom. She needed to be far, far away from Edmund Barton.

"I understand that you begin your rehearsals tomorrow. I shall see you then, Meg." Before she had a chance to avoid him, Edmund seized one of her hands, bringing it to his lips with a kind of violence. His kiss upon her soft hand was a lingering one, and his steely gaze that captured her own held a kind of hidden malevolence, an assurance of power and determination. As soon as her captured hand was released, Meg fled, actually _fled_ from the Manger's office. Even as she further distanced herself away from the office and the hateful man who occupied it, she did not slow her pace.

Running without direction, seeing without seeing, Meg did not see the form of her mother in a connecting hallway. Madame Giry's look of concern went unnoticed by her panicked daughter, and even as she called out to her Meg did not hear her. On a whim, Meg grasped the handle of a door nearby her and hurried into an empty rehearsal room.

The silence was gratifying to her, and soon her hushed sobs filled the mirrored room. Stumbling to the far side of the room, she grasped the ballet barre mounted on the wall. There were no tears to accompany her sobs; she would not allow it. It was enough that she was made to feel so weak before a man she feared and hated. She would not, if she could help it, shed tears because of him, never again.

"Meg, my darling, what has happened?" The warm dulcet tones of her mother called to her from across the room. The woman had entered the room silently, standing with perfect grace beside the door. Meg looked over her shoulder, smiled weakly to Madame Giry, and eagerly flew into her open arms.

Her sobs had ceased, but her breathing was still quick and labored. Her mother's embrace was one of power and comfort, as it had always been throughout Meg's life. Time had done nothing to alter that.

"There now, dearest. Calm yourself. Tell your old mother what is the matter."

Meg laughed softly against her shoulder. "You are not old, Maman."

"Of course I am. Don't change the subject."

"You are _not_, and I am not trying to change the subject." With a final sigh, Meg regained her composure. She could not tell her mother all that had transpired, but it was useless to hide so much of her past with Edmund away from her.

"It is…Monsieur Barton. _He _is the matter."

"I thought as much," Madame Giry clucked.

Pulling away without fully leaving her embrace, Meg regarded her mother curiously. "How did you know?"

"I may be old, but I am also wise in my age. I have schooled many young girls through the years, and I was once one myself. It is not difficult to see when a man is the cause of grief for a girl."

"I'm hardly a girl," Meg argued, but her mother soon interrupted.

"Monsieur Barton is a fine manager, but he could never make you happy."

"No. Once I thought he could, but I know better now."

Nodding knowingly, Madame Giry smoothed Meg's tousled curls with gentle hands. "Evidently, he does not share your view."

"But he will," Meg avowed, her eyes shining with new determination. "He deserves nothing less. We were engaged, Maman. It was a secret engagement, but an engagement nonetheless. But I soon discovered he was not…faithful."

Madame Giry's gasp was genuinely shocked, and outrage filled her words that accompanied it. "Not faithful to my Meg? Well then he's a damned fool. And he thinks that you will welcome him back with open arms? He has a thing or two to learn about Giry women."

"Please don't upset yourself, Maman. I want to be happy here in the Opera House, and Monsieur Barton can do nothing to stop me." Meg smiled weakly, doing her best to assure her mother that all would be well. "He is nothing to me and therefore, he cannot hurt me."

"You are not telling me everything, Meg. Where have you been all day? I've hardly seen you since your return. Do you not have the power to confide in your own mother?"

Her words filled Meg with guilt. It was true; she was hiding desperate secrets from the only family she had, and it left her with such pain. She had never intended to return to such intrigues within the Opera House. It had been her home, her haven for many years. And now, with the presence of Edmund and the weight of Erik's secret existence, the Opera House was beginning to feel like a prison. Would she ever find the time to confide all in her beloved mother? Would it ever be within her power?

"I must go," Meg whispered weakly. Madame Giry reluctantly released her daughter. "Martine…costumes," she said faintly, then quitted the room entirely.

For some time, her hands clasped tightly, Antoinette Giry studied the door that her child had fled through. In her mind she carefully reviewed Meg's strange behavior over the past two days. Such joy had filled her when her daughter had returned! It still lingered, but it was a wounded happiness. A mother's eyes could see the pain in her own child, and Meg was certainly suffering under a heavy burden of some kind. How could she protect her child if she did not know what was haunting her?

"Something must be done," she whispered aloud, her wise cerulean eyes aglow from the tears that threatened to overflow.

"Something will be done." Those words—not of her own, but coming from somewhere in the room—were familiar to her. That voice…that voice! It could not be…

And then he was there before her, a ghost from her past. A _phantom_ from her past.

"Erik…?" Her softly accented words, usually so careful and controlled, broke with emotion.

"Antoinette," he returned evenly, stepping closer. He looked exactly as he had five years before, as he had looked for so many years. Tall and regal, power lurking beneath his surface, he was dressed meticulously in the color of black that he favored so often. The demi-mask covered his face still, though she was well aware of the monstrous face that lay beneath it. Even before Christine Daae had revealed his face during that fateful performance of _Don Juan Triumphant_, Madame Giry had known that it was something terrible to behold. And yet, in her ageless wisdom, it had never frightened her, never turned her away in disgust.

"We thought you were dead!" she gasped, tears spilling from her eyes. "However did you…where have you…?"

"I let the world believe I was dead. It was to my liking," Erik told her simply. Her tears unnerved him somehow. He had always known Antoinette Giry to be a woman of great control. She was not one who gave into tears easily. Could it be that she truly crying for him?

"I had not planned on revealing myself to anyone so soon, I assure you," he continued, halting several steps from her. "But I can see now that it is…necessary that I reveal myself to yet another Giry woman."

"Another?" Realization dawned on her, and she glanced again at the door that her Little Meg had left through. "Meg? Meg knows that you are alive?"

"She does. She has known since the day she arrived. Do not, I beg of you, Madam, be angry with her for keeping my survival a secret from you. I asked her to do so, and she has most graciously upheld her promise."

"My Meg has never been a card player. She would have taken your secret to the grave."

"I know." They were silent for a moment, regarding each other in undisguised evaluation. Erik thought he knew well the ballet instructor's thoughts. She was caught between abhorrence and respect for him, unsure if she needed to fear for her daughter's safety or trust that she would be safe from him. How could he blame such thoughts? It was Antoinette Giry who had allowed Christine to be instructed by the Phantom. Had she known what was truly transpiring in those lessons, no doubt she would have done her best to put an end to them. It was not difficult to believe that Madame Giry was still possessed by guilt for letting Christine fall so deeply into the intrigue that had held all involved prisoner.

"What is it that you want with Meg?" There was no denying the protective threat that accompanied her words. "Is the fear that I see in her eyes because of you?"

He took a moment to contemplate his answer. If he was to enlist Madame Giry's help, as was his desire at this moment, he needed to tread carefully. She lived to protect and love her daughter, that much was evident.

"Meg has no reason to fear me. I'm not sure that she ever has feared me, whether she needed to or not. I can offer you no reason to trust me, yet I must ask you to. Trust me when I say that it is not I whom she need fear, but the calculating vices of one Monsieur Barton."

"And how do you know that?" Madame Giry demanded, her tears ceasing to flow at last. "What is it that you know that I do not?"

"What Meg did not tell you is that he attacked her in her dressing room." Erik watched the woman's hand fly to her throat, fear and outrage sweeping across her face. "As you see, Meg is all right. He apparently could not take no for an answer, and sought to force some kind of affection from her. I took it in upon myself to interfere."

"Then…Monsieur Barton? He knows that you…?"

"No," Erik quickly assured her, seeing some semblance of relief in her eyes. "He was rendered unconscious by my intervention. Meg did her best to convince him it was her doing."

Madame Giry was shaking her head now, quickly and almost violently. "I don't understand," she mumbled, arms akimbo as she paced nervously. "What am I to do? And why are you telling me all of these things?"

"Meg has done me a great favor in keeping my existence a secret, and I feel an obligation to her. I…did not want to see your relationship with your daughter strained because of her promise to me. And…" Dear God, why was it so difficult for him to confess all of this to her? "And I don't want to see Meg harmed. I want to see her kept safely from this Monsieur Barton."

She was beginning to understand. Her movement stopped, and she watched Erik curiously. She was in control of herself again, he could see, and seemed to be evaluating him once again with her all-knowing eyes.

"You care for my daughter?"

"Yes."

"I want to believe you. What do you want from me?"

"Watch her, love her, do your best to keep her from being alone with that Barton man. She clearly wants to begin rebuilding her life here, and I wish for her to be able to do so without feeling threatened. I will protect her, and I ask the same from you."

Was there a gentle smile playing at Antoinette Giry's lips? Was that a glow of understanding from her powerful eyes?

"I am her mother, Erik. I will always protect her. Thank you for confiding in me."

He nodded stiffly. "There is one other thing that I ask, Antoinette."

"And what is that?"

"It would…please me…if you would not think of me as a threat to your daughter. I am not the same as I was five years ago. I…I believe that I am in greater control of my faculties now."

She had no answer for him. Only time would tell if what he said were true. For now she would have to trust him, believe that his intentions towards her only child were truly good. Her face carefully emotionless, she turned to leave.

"I will tell no one that I have seen you," she promised in a whisper, and was gone.

* * *

AN: Another update! Are you proud of me? It seems that Meg has two marvelous allies behind her, but will it be enough? With the arrival some other characters on the horizon (hint: you'll recognize at least _two_ of them), things are certainly going to get interesting. As always, thank you for your reviews! 


	9. The New Act

**AN: After another lengthy break I finally have a new chapter for my darling readers. I apologize for the long wait on this one. This is a pivotal chapter for many reasons and I wanted to be sure it was ready before posting it. Besides that, I'm working on another fanfiction right now and my muse decided to run away from me for a little while. Please let me know what you think of my story so far. I have the plot all pretty well planned out, so I can promise you that this story will not be abandoned. Thank you again for taking the time to read and review!**

* * *

Meg found solace in the silence of her room. Carefully traipsing through familiar corridors, she had managed to escape to the room without another unfortunate encounter with the despised manager. The quiet space offered her considerable comfort, allowing tortured thoughts to unwind themselves. Questions, answers, plans, fears; they unraveled swiftly into oblivion, each rapid thought giving way to another with little sense of direction. _Erik, Edmund, Maman. Erik, Martine, Edmund. Christine. Erik. Erik…_

For a long while, she anticipated a visit from Erik. Half hope, half fear, she both rejoiced and grieved when he did not appear. His beautiful music drifted amongst her thoughts. Such beauty, such power! Was it possible to know a man's soul through his majestic compositions?

She found herself before the jewelry box Erik had broken. With delicate fingers, she traced the lid, lingering on the broken hinge. It was proof that he existed, that he had truly been with her. How strangely comforting it was to the exhausted woman to have such proof in her very room.

Night came on and darkness overtook her. Aching and tired, Meg longed for sleep. Slipping out of her dress and into a delicate white nightgown, she said a quick prayer before slipping between the cool sheets of her little bed. Her golden head hit the pillow, and sleep beckoned her. Drifting gratefully into the awaiting arms of Morpheus, her last thoughts twirled away into nothingness.

_Erik, Edmund, Maman. Erik, Christine._

_Erik._

The morning dawned pleasantly, warm streaks of sunshine gently beckoning the slumbering Meg awake. She awoke slowly at first, wanting to cling to the dreams of her peaceful night. The images were fading now, the colors dulling and the voices quieting. Meg knew that when consciousness took her fully, the dream would be lost forever.

Three rapid knocks on the door, however, left her thoroughly awake. Bolting upright, it took a moment for the knocks to register. They were familiar to her, those deliberate raps. Madame Giry was on the other side of the door.

Throwing the bedding off of her, Meg stumbled to the door. She flung it open and was nearly bowled over as her mother strode into the room, breakfast tray in hands. "Meg, you have overslept!" she said immediately, freeing a hand to smooth the blankets in place before setting the tray on the bed. "It is well past nine, my darling."

Meg merely yawned, unaffected by her words. The delicious aroma of her breakfast, however, affected her greatly. Realizing how little she'd eaten since her return, it was all she could do not to run to the tantalizing food.

Beginning to eat straightaway, she chose to ignore the assessing stare of her silent mother. The silence was perfectly agreeable to her. If her mother did not ask questions, Meg would not have to answer them. Raising a warm croissant to her lips, she paused as Madame Giry's gentle hand smoothed her unbound hair. The warmth of her mother's love filled her, and abandoning the croissant for the moment, Meg smiled serenely.

"Meg," Madame Giry began softly, moving to sit beside her daughter, "there need be no secrets between us."

Meg knew the conversation to be inevitable, yet she had hoped the peaceful moment she shared with her mother could have lasted. "Maman, please," she begged, turning her face away. "I cannot--"

"I know that Erik is alive." Nothing could have prepared Meg for that revelation. Eyes widening, her gaze flew to meet her mother's. Was she bluffing? Could this be some sort of a trap? "I don't know what you're talking about," she whispered stiffly. "I don't even know who Erik is."

"Of course you do, my sweet, loyal child. I know about the promise you made to him. Erik himself told me."

Sweet relief filled Meg, and she exhaled deeply. "He told you? When? Where?"

"Yesterday, after you left the rehearsal room."

"Did he tell you that you could tell me, tell me that you knew?"

Guilt flashed briefly in Madame Giry's eyes. "No, not expressly, but I do not think he would mind. He revealed himself as a favor to you, I think. He is a changed man. I…I do not know what to think."

"I believe he has changed, Maman, but if anything, it was for the better." She looked away, a dreamy look in her eyes. "I did not know him before. I only knew what Christine told me, and the rumors around the Opera House. And then Don Juan Triumphant… But my heart tells me that he is different now. He has been nothing but kind to me, helping me when I need him most."

Madame Giry thought carefully, her hands folded demurely atop the black gauze of her skirts. "I ask only that you are cautious, my love, that is all." Her words were low and gentle, but there was no mistaking the warning in her voice. "I've told you this before, Meg, but I will tell you again; always think carefully on what you do, on the choices you make. I cannot be there beside you at all times, even though I often wish I could be. Whatever happens, whatever choices you make, let your heart and your mind rule you equally."

A long moment passed away in silence. Just when Meg was prepared to offer more assurances to her mother, Madame Giry started, her serene countenance falling away. "Oh, Meg, I'd nearly forgotten! Get up, quickly, my love, and change. You will be late for rehearsals!"

Rehearsals, of course! Meg had quite forgotten. She was to dance, she remembered with great joy, hastening to change. Her mother helped where she could, unfolding a white tutu made of many gauzy layers from one of the unpacked trunks that lay against the wall. Meg donned it hastily over a white sleeveless dancer's shift while Madame Giry's efficient fingers pulled her golden curls into a ponytail at the base of her neck, securing it with a white ribbon.

"Oh, Meg," she sighed, stepping back to examine her daughter. "How I will love to see you dance again."

"Thank you, Maman!" Meg pressed a quick kiss to her mother's smooth cheek, and together they hurried from the room and into the hall.

* * *

The Phantom of the Opera had seen many beautiful things in his life. One dark haired young songbird had once epitomized the very essence of beauty for him, but suddenly and quite unexpectedly he was beginning to think differently.

If Christine Daae was the perfect example of innocent loveliness and angelic song, Meg Giry was no less than the epitome of natural grace and heavenly beauty. Watching her dance was so new an experience for him, the effect was no less than shocking. How had failed to notice her talents before? Had he truly been so absorbed in pursuing the young siren that he had overlooked Madame Giry's enchantress of a daughter?

Two weeks had passed swiftly by since Erik had led the young dancer to his home beneath the Opera House. They saw each other only during the briefest of moments, for nearly all of Meg's time was consumed with rehearsals. This, Erik was certain, was the work of the Monsieur Barton. The man was present at every rehearsal and disgustingly overeager in duties. He had taken upon himself several important roles; he was director, stage manager, even a choreographer of sorts so long as the interaction was with Meg.

From his vantage point in the shadows of box five, rebuilt in its entirety after its destruction years before, he could see that Meg was suffering from exhaustion. Her every graceful move was flawless, yet she lacked her usual flair and that burst of glowing energy that always accompanied her onto the stage.

After another perfect finale, Meg was breathing heavily, her chest straining against the tight bodice of her elaborate costume. "Enough," Madame Giry's voice called firmly from the wings. A moment later and she strode into his view, her arm wrapping around her daughter's slumped shoulders. "That is enough rehearsal for one day," she insisted with a freezing glare in the manager's direction.

"It was very good," Edmund drawled, sauntering onto the stage with his arms clasped behind his back. "I'm just concerned that it wasn't quite as good as some of her other tries. There was a part near the middle where she was, I'm absolutely sure, off by half a beat."

"If that was true, Monsieur, which I am very sure it is _not_, then the only reason would be that she is exhausted. Meg has been dancing for hours now. The rest of the cast is eager to rehearse the third act, which you have been merely glancing over for days now. Give the others a chance to perfect their own talents and let Meg rest." Erik very nearly applauded Madame Giry's fiery words.

"Very well," Edmund relented, nodding slowly. Meg sighed heavily, sharing a wry smile with her mother before the pair slowly began to leave the stage. "One more thing, Mademoiselle," Edmund persisted, taking a step toward them.

"It is almost time for Meg to begin rehearsals for her number in the fourth and final act."

Madame Giry released her daughter, arms akimbo as she boldly faced the manager. "Monsieur, I believe you are losing your mind. Meg does not dance in the final act."

But the audacious man only grinned. "Have you not read the entire script, Madame?"

"You know very well that I have not," Madame Giry huffed. "Despite the fact that no one has ever heard of this opera, you have given it to the Company in parts. But you told me early on that Meg has two numbers."

Edmund clearly knew something that she didn't. "Mademoiselle Giry has two numbers where she _dances._ The third number is a solo of another kind."

She was not amused. "You are talking in riddles, Monsieur."

"No." Meg had stepped forward, laying a hand on her mother's arm. "Monsieur Barton means that I am to sing in the last act, and not dance."

"Is this true, Monsieur?" the older woman demanded, confusion written plainly on her face.

"It is indeed, Madame. In the fourth act, Sorsha, the forest nymph that has fallen in love with the dark magician, sings of her helpless devotion before she is turned into a rose and withers away in the frost of spring. You see, even though she truly loved the magician, she refused to give herself to him. The magician has little choice but to bend her to his will, even though tragedy follows." Following his vaguely triumphant explanation, Meg did something very unladylike; she snorted in contempt, rolling her eyes as she folded her arms across her chest.

"Well, how terribly romantic that is," she told him haughtily, though Erik could not help but admit that she was lovely when she was so spiritedly rebellious. "It all makes perfect sense to me," she continued, and by now several other members of the Company had gathered nearby to watch the strange exchange. "A beautiful forest nymph with the power to do as she pleases for all eternity finds herself hopelessly enamored and utterly powerless before a magician of questionable origins and even more questionable importance to the true plot of the opera. I suppose it is only natural that her destruction at the hands of the man who could not have her is her very own fault."

Beside her, Madame Giry smiled wickedly, knowing full well that her daughter had just emerged the victor. "Very well, I'll sing," Meg finished, her chin rising a good two inches. "But I shall not rehearse before anyone else until it is perfect, according to my own standards. Do I make myself clear?"

Edmund nodded shakily, at a loss as to how he could combat the ballerina's demands. "Very well, Mademoiselle," he conceded, giving her a curt bow. "You have two weeks. In three weeks we open, so I reserve the right as your manager to see your progress the week of dress rehearsal." His next words were softened, almost intimate in their silky tones. "I know you better than you think, Meg. You may fight me now, but in the end you will still give one of the best performances Paris has ever seen. You have a voice, and you shall use it. It is what you were born to do."

He smiled, bowed again, and strode away into the wings. The two Giry women were left utterly speechless.

* * *

Shaking in something akin to rage, Meg stripped away the pieces of her suffocating costume in the safety of her dressing room. Careful so as not to ruin the lovely creation Martine had created, she nonetheless indulged in quick, violent motions to free some of the anger pent up inside of her. "That arrogant, disgusting rat!" she burst with each tug at the stiff bodice of the dress. "Conniving, sneaking little monster!" Now the folds of her flowing knee-length skirt were shed. Unwilling to wear any tight fitting garment, she drew a light chemise over her head and left it at that.

"He is all of those things, and more," a smooth voice echoed around her, and in an instant she recognized those tantalizing tones.

"Erik?" she questioned aloud, turning in place to seek him out. "Erik, is that you? Where are you?"

"Here." His voice was so close to her ear she swore she could feel his breath. She gasped, jerking to face him. He was but a foot from her, grinning enigmatically beneath his demi-mask of white.

"Were you there?" she asked immediately, searching his eyes. Of course, she already knew the answer. As she already knew full and well, Erik was present at every rehearsal, hidden in the shadows as he was wont.

"He thinks to trap you," Erik said in a menacing voice, his eyes hardening instantly. "I'm not sure to what end his intentions lead, but he is either trying to ensnare you by unrelenting control or odd, poorly timed moments of flattery."

"Both, I think," Meg sighed, feeling some sense of propriety as she sought something to cover herself from the nearby armoire. Pulling out a long silk robe of sapphire blue, she drew it on and secured the ribbon just beneath her bust. Erik watched curiously, sure that the beauty was unaware of just how fetching she looked to him. He was fighting a losing battle. No matter how he tried to deny himself, it was growing ever clearer that he found the ballerina utterly intoxicating. Like a sweet wine he could never try, he desired to taste her. It was as though he was punishing himself, seeking her presence as he was now and knowing that he could never allow himself to pursue those desires he was determined to fight.

"Do not worry, though." Meg's words interrupted his reverie, her eyes seeking to meet his again. "He cannot win. I am no shrinking wood nymph, I assure you."

"No," Erik agreed solemnly, startling Meg with his somber tones. "You are much more than that, Little Meg. Were you truly a part of some mythological tragedy, your role would be more than the foolish and tragic nymph."

Meg smiled softly, feeling warmth at what she was sure was a great compliment. "I confess, I always thought of myself as more of a goddess when I imagined myself into myths as a child."

Erik was taken aback. "Do you like mythology, Meg?" he questioned, watching her intently as her eyes took on a dreamy glow.

"Oh, yes, very much. I used to imagine I was Artemis, running through my mystical forest as I hunted."

A small smile spread across his face. "Is that what you were doing when you ran through the halls like a wild thing?" He suddenly remembered quite clearly an afternoon when she and Christine, no more than eight years of age, had been racing through the Opera House, unaware that the Phantom watched from behind solid walls. Meg had been wielding a harmless toy bow and arrow that one of the stage hands had smuggled away for her, and in her exuberance she'd fired a clean shot right into Christine's retreating form. The girls had laughed and laughed even after one of the cross old seamstresses had sent them back to their dormitory.

"You saw?" Meg laughed, shaking her head bemusedly.

"You know that I see everything," he reminded her gently. "Is Artemis your favorite? You prefer the huntress?"

"No," Meg amended, her smile growing. "I always loved Persephone, I'm afraid to say. I suppose that she appears no better than a shrinking wood nymph to most people." Now this was an interesting turn, Erik mused. Persephone, the abducted bride of Hades, Lord of the Underworld, was oft remembered as a truly helpless maiden.

"I always saw in her a different way than the rest of the world, I think," Meg continued, prepared to enlighten him on her goddess of choice. "I believe that she was a very powerful woman, Persephone. Stolen away in the prime of her innocence, she was forced to live in the darkest of all places. But I am sure that she came to love her dark husband, against all odds, and learned to live a life of balance in the most extraordinary of circumstances. Oh, and besides all that, she was pretty. I always liked the pretty ones."

She grinned in spite of herself, unaware of the serious demeanor that had overcome Erik. How strange, how dreadfully strange, he thought to himself, that Meg had chosen Persephone. For he, in his own love of mythology, had always preferred Hades. He could not, would not look too far into it. They had their favorites, each of them. Their likeminded choices did not signify something more meaningful. He would not allow such a thought to take hold in his mind.

"Do you have a favorite god?" Meg asked to Erik's great dismay.

"Apollo," he lied smoothly and immediately, turning away to examine the articles of her dressing table.

"God of music, among other things," she murmured, apparently accepting his answer.

"Do you intend to sing for him?" His words nearly knocked her over. How afraid she'd been that this would eventually come up.

"I intend to sing, but you must understand something; I will never, _ever_ sing for him." Meg shook her head to emphasize each word. She felt ready to flee, loathing the turn that the conversation must now take.

"I suppose you want me to help you sing," he said in a low voice, his hands pressed to the marble top of the dressing table.

"No." That one word was so emphatic, Erik spun around to face her immediately.

"No?" He was stunned. Wasn't that what Meg had had in mind when she'd told the manager she would rehearse far from the presence of anyone else? Hadn't she been planning on seeking his help?

"No," she averred, awash with guilt and trepidation.

"Meg…why not? Are you so afraid of me? I thought that by now you had learned to trust me, at least in some way."

"Oh, Erik, I do! I do trust you!" she assured him, taking a step closer to him, her beautiful dark eyes aglow with concern.

"Then why not trust me to help you sing?" he demanded softly, too stunned to be offended as of yet.

As the resolve around her heart began to crumble, Meg's mind demanded that she not give in. Drawing up to her full height, the top of her golden head still just reaching Erik's shoulders, she told him in clear, even tones, "I will not become another Christine."

Silence followed her words, unbroken for several long, agonizing seconds.

"You _what_?" Erik demanded, closing the gap between them so that he towered over her.

"You heard what I said," Meg continued, her voice beginning to shake despite her resolve to stay firm. "I could not bear to become just another chorus girl to you. I will not be another Christine to you."

Erik felt a powerful rage build up inside of him. His words were cold, biting, and frighteningly powerful. "What makes you think, Mademoiselle, that you could ever, _ever_ be someone dear and beloved to me? Do you really think that I, the _Phantom of the Opera_, could ever care for a hopeless, helpless little _nymph_ such as yourself?"

"No, no, that isn't what I meant," Meg tried to tell him, backing away as Erik slowly advanced on her. Why had he turned on her so quickly? She'd struck a nerve, but was at a loss as to how.

"Then what? What could you have possibly meant?"

She had no answer for him, knew only fear and disbelief at the way Erik had changed before her very eyes. "Please, Erik, I didn't mean…"

Meg did not finish. Erik placed his gloved hands upon her small shoulders, his grip hard as stone. His words echoed through her thoughts, filling her with aching pain. Helpless, he'd called her helpless. A hopeless, helpless _nymph._

Before she knew what was happening, his lips descended upon hers with reckless speed. He kiss was insistent, powerful and bordering on violence. Her heart, traitor that it was, felt like rejoicing for some twisted, unknown reason to her. But her mind, ever steady when it came to the man who now held her trapped, screamed at her to break free. _Helpless! He called you helpless! _

With power born of desperation, Meg pushed against his chest with all her might. Fighting against his powerful grasp, she freed herself from his kiss and twisted out of his arms. "I am not helpless!" she screamed at him, and her dark eyes were so filled with terror that Erik found himself frozen.

Meg fled from the dressing room before his eyes, leaving him utterly alone in damning silence.

What had he done? The dark emotions that had filled him so recently were thrown into oblivion, replaced with remorse so deep that he was sure he would drown in it. Nearly falling to his knees, he stumbled back against the dressing table in a kind of stupor.

Oh, God, what had he _done_? The truth came barreling at him, forcing its way into both his heart and his mind so that they were suddenly of one accord. He had been afraid, so afraid because of his own helplessness at the growing _love_ he was beginning to feel for Meg Giry. How could he have ever denied it? And because he had fought so hard to repress it, he had turned his rage against the woman whose very existence created that helplessness.

He was a monster, and now she was gone, surely flown from his presence forever. Surely she would leave the Opera House for good now, chased away not by a detested manager, but by a man she had unwillingly begun to trust.

"No… _No_!" Erik could not allow that to happen, not before he somehow made amends. He had only just found her: How could he lose her now? Meg would not leave, he realized suddenly. She had not allowed that other idiot to chase her away, nor would she give Erik that pleasure.

Defeated and suddenly feeling very tired, Erik fled the dressing room himself for the solitude of his subterranean sanctuary. There was much to be done if he was to fix the damage he had inflicted.


	10. Return of the Phantom

_A music box played somewhere far beyond him. The tinkling melody echoed lightly around the misty void he found himself in, and its simple tones were absolutely chilling. _

"_Erik." Christine's voice, dulcet and smooth as ever, called to him. Strange, but he couldn't remember her ever calling him by his God given name before. "Erik, come to me," she beckoned, and through the mist her little form stepped. Dressed in soft pinks and with her dark hair gloriously unbound, she looked lovelier than he had ever seen her. Oh, how he wanted to reach for her, to finally take what he had striven for so long._

"_Erik?" Another voice called to him through the mist. This one was different, soft and sweet but masking surprising power. Meg had found him in this unholy abyss as well, it seemed, and his heart felt rent in twain._

"_Don't keep me waiting, Angel of Music." Christine's voice was hauntingly seductive. As ever she was his siren, the greatest weakness he had ever known. He had crumbled before her, spiraling into unbound madness for the sake of unrequited love. Should he run to her, then? What sweet pleasures could be found in those sleek little arms of hers? _

_Meg had appeared far across from Christine. She looked purely angelic in every sense of the word, dressed all in flowing white and with golden hair so bright it nearly blinded him. And yet her dark eyes glowed with compassion, with strength, with determination. She would not beg him, nor would she attempt to persuade him. As still as a sentinel in the night, she waited without words._

"_Don't you want to see what I have for you?" Christine pressed, tipping her head quizzically and allowing a few dark curls to slip tantalizingly across her cheek. And suddenly, as though a light had flickered on in this unending night, he was struck with an epiphany. _

_Drawing back as she advanced towards him, he couldn't help but smile sadly. "No," he called to her. "No, Christine. You don't want me, and from this moment on, I don't want you." The dark haired beauty stumbled, furrowing her brow in obvious confusion._

"_But Erik, you're my Angel! You cannot turn me away." She was pleading, even close to tears in her appeals._

"_It was not I who turned you away, Christine." She stumbled again, faltering as though she'd just received a physical blow. "Good bye, Countess de Chagny." Regarding him for one final moment, stunned and utterly speechless, the image of the young woman dissipated into the mist from which it had come._

_He felt no remorse. She'd been gone for years, truth be told, and though he had never believed it before, he was beginning to realize that time truly did have the power to heal even the deepest of wounds. Turning to Meg, that glorious vision in white, he smiled as he stepped toward her. _

_She smiled back at him, serene but strangely aloof. "Meg?" he questioned, even as his feet were rooted to the floor. Erik was alarmed to find that she was not alone. There was someone else, a man… The manager. Taking her by the hand, Edmund drew her fingers to his lips. He kissed them slowly and possessively, his cold green eyes glaring triumphantly at Erik. _

"_Come away, Meg," the manager beckoned, and without even blinking she obeyed. She seemed distant, practically blind as she followed Edmund's lead without truly looking at anything around her. In short, she was as powerless as Erik, unable to fight what she couldn't possibly have desired. _

"_Meg, don't!" Erik cried out, reaching for her with an outstretched arm. "Don't leave with him! Meg! MEG!"  
_

The dream faded away slowly. Erik fought to free himself from its grasp, moaning and thrashing against the silk pillows that cushioned him. "Meg…" he muttered, his breathing becoming harsh. "Meg, don't! Meg!" He was awake with a burst of movement, literally bolting upright to finally break free from the dream.

Yes, a dream. That was all it had been. Unwilling to wallow in his grief and regret after his tirade against her, he had wasted no time in collapsing onto the bed upon his return and surrendering to a fitful slumber. Of course he had not wandered through the mist of a dark abyss, nor faced the two beauties that for one reason or another constantly laid claim to his thoughts. It was not the first time he'd been the unwilling victim of a nightmare, nor would it be the last. Yet there was something significant about this dream turned nightmare, a message that had found him in sleep since he would not allow it access in his waking world.

Christine, whom he had loved so passionately, was no longer the woman that laid claim over his heart. Meg, the daughter of his old ally, now held that distinction. When this dramatic change had begun to take hold, he could scarcely begin to imagine. Perhaps it had started the very night they had crossed paths again, when she had faced him with as much boldness as she could muster despite his terrible wrath. It could have begun when next they had shared a moment in his most sacred lair, when Meg had so readily listened and loved his brilliant composition. They had understood one another then, if only for a moment.

The truth was that it was all of these things, combined as one powerful force to lay waste to the walls around his heart bit by bit. There was no violence in this assault against his heart's defenses, and his final surrender was not nearly as painful as he would have expected.

And yet he had already lost her. One moment of horrible rage was all it had taken to send her running from him forever. How cruel God was to give him such enlightenment after it was all but terribly useless. Then again, Erik had never been entirely sure there was a God at all, not after the kind of tortured existence he'd been forced to lead.

Something new was stirring inside of him. There was a powerful pull, combined with whirling thoughts of notes and bars of the musical sort. Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he rose slowly and took several deliberate steps toward the grand piano waiting in the corner.

_Inspiration_. For the first time in nearly five years, Erik was feeling true inspiration expanding within him. It was utterly glorious, that familiar demanding sensation that filled him with such purpose and power. Closing the remaining distance to the piano in two quick strides, he settled himself on the bench and immediately placed his fingers on the keys.

One chord, then another and another; a majestic run and then the soaring melody began. Through his hands he began to create such wonderful music, and suddenly he knew well what he would do. He would not lose Meg just yet; he couldn't. Whatever had transpired between them, he at least had his promise of protection to fulfill. That, coupled with a new plan brimming in his mind, was enough to send him back up to the surface as he had never arisen before.

Erik smiled triumphantly. All of the Opera House, even all of Paris even would soon know that the Phantom of the Opera had returned, very much alive, and more powerful than ever. His days as a dead man were at an end.

* * *

"Raise your arms up. Meg, darling, raise your arms. Meg?" Martine's warm voice broke finally broke through to the befuddled blonde, and realizing what she had been told to do, she jerkily hastened to raise both of her arms. Martine shook her head slowly, her wide blue eyes regarding Meg carefully as she continued her work. Examining the sequined corset-like bodice, those orbs continued to flicker to the ballerina's expressionless face.

"You can put your arms down, now," she told her softly, stepping back with hands on hips. "I think I've loosened it sufficiently so that it still fits you like a glove but you have the added benefit of being able to breathe." Meg said nothing, nodding slowly in drone-like motions. "And I've embellished the tutu with some orange, so when you twirl, you'll really create the illusion of flames." Again she nodded, her dark eyes staring straight ahead. "Oh, and of course, I went into your room a little while ago and took all your dresses. I'm using the fabric from your gowns to create little sundresses for poor, orphaned little girls, and I sold all of your jewelry to raise money for them. I hope you don't mind."

When Meg continued to nod, Martine threw her arms to the air in exasperation. "Meg, what is wrong with you?" she cried, taking the stiff girl by the shoulders and giving her a firm shake. Fire flashed in the dancer's eyes, and in an instant she was back to reality.

"Don't shake me, please don't shake me," she demanded of Martine, throwing the girl's arms away and taking a step back. "Why does everyone try to shake you when they don't get what they want?"

Martine looked on, bewildered and alarmed, as Meg sank onto a stool, her shoulders drooping and her face buried in her little hands. "Everyone?" she questioned gently but urgently, going to kneel beside her. "Who is everyone, Meg? What has happened?"

"No one. Nothing," Meg quickly responded, shaking her head violently. "I'm sorry, Martine, I'm so sorry. I'm just so tired from all of the rehearsals." Martine sighed beside her, running a coarse hand through her inky black curls.

"That damned ex-fiancé of yours works you like a horse," the seamstress agreed bitterly, sitting back on her heels. "I didn't want to say anything before, but you look dead on your feet, Meg. These past three days you've been wandering around like a spirit, silent and solemn, so unlike yourself. What you need is a vacation."

"What I need is somewhere to rehearse my aria." Martine furrowed her brow at this, tilting her head curiously.

"There are plenty of rehearsal rooms here, you silly thing. Why don't you pick one of them? I'm sure they're yours for the choosing, seeing as no one other than you has done any real rehearsing. The good manager has seen to that."

Meg laughed half-heartedly, dropping her hands and glancing at Martine. Her face was unusually pale and dark shadows lurked beneath her eyes. "I can't bring myself to rehearse in the Opera House." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "Not when _he's_ here, anyway. I'm so afraid he'll be nearby, listening and seeking to interfere. I could never get a good practice in when I'm thinking about him." Did she mean Erik or Edmund? Even Meg wasn't sure who she was more afraid of at the moment: Edmund, for the obvious reasons; or Erik, for reasons that she did not understand?

She was wounded, disturbed by what had transpired between she and Erik, but she could not bring herself to hate him. No, never hate; shock, disbelief, anger and some despair, but never hate. If she hated anyone, it was herself; she hated that after all that had transpired, she desired more than anything to see him once more, to hear his voice again. Foolish mortal that she was, the sleep she had lost was over him alone and nothing else.

Naturally, Martine took her words to mean the Edmund. "I have a solution for you," she told Meg happily, that playful grin of hers finding its way across her lips. "Go to the Bistro. No one goes there in the mornings and afternoons. There's a piano there, and I'm sure Henri would be more than happy to let you use it to rehearse."

Meg pondered on her words, deciding almost instantly that Martine had truly found the solution. The Bistro was popular to all of the Company, and old Henri, the Bistro's owner, was a friend of her mother's. She would be more than welcome there.

"As always, Martine, you are my voice of reason," Meg said with a smile. At least one part of her future was decided.

* * *

As the flaring music from the orchestra pit died away, an audible sigh came up from the wings when Edmund strode onto the stage. Meg wanted nothing more than to disappear into the elaborate tree-filled scenery that occupied the stage, but there was nothing to be done. Folding her arms, she prepared herself for another absurd critique from a man who could not possibly know anything about ballet.

"It's much better," he began with a smirk, surrounding himself in an aura of self-importance, or so Meg thought. "However--" here the stagehands and cast members alike sighed again, aggravated and annoyed by their new manager's behavior, "--I'm afraid that during that rather long spinning part of yours, somewhere towards the end, you stumbled. Now, truly, it wasn't markedly noticeable, but I believe that with one more try you're sure to get it right. Again, if you would be so kind."

Edmund had no idea how deadly close he was to having a mutiny on his hands. The entire Company was beginning to loathe him entirely, and they each swore to one another that through his ridiculous ministrations the Opera House's grand reopening was sure to be a humiliating failure.

"Sir," Meg muttered contemptuously, her voice hoarse from the exertion of the past several hours. "I have practiced _far_ longer than is necessary for any ballerina. If I am beginning to stumble, it is because I am fatigued and more than ready to call it a day. There are other parts to be rehearsed, in case you have forgotten. I am _not_ the star, and therefore I do _not_ deserve so much unwarranted attention."

Her words were fiery and forceful, but they seemed not to breech Edmund's powerful façade. He smiled in a patient, fatherly sort of way, as though Meg was a child who had just said something very silly indeed. "Mademoiselle Giry, your humility is truly touching," he told her slowly. If his unbearable fatherly tone was not enough, he had the audacity to reach out and squeeze one of her bare shoulders. Meg was not quick enough to avoid his touch altogether, but she hastily shook out of his grip with visible violence.

Edmund continued, apparently unperturbed, although Meg could see a slight tic in his jaw. "However, seeing as you are our prima ballerina, you are very much a star of the show. Sorsha's role is quintessential to the opera." A gross exaggeration in Meg's estimation, and it was obvious the rest of the Company shared her sentiment. The rotund Armando Bellini, the most powerful baritone of the Company and a diva in his own right, was turning a nasty shade of red. From where he stood in the nearby wings, it appeared that at any moment he was prepared to explode onto the stage to launch some sort of a tirade in Edmund's direction.

Fortunately, Meg understood that no one taking part in the opera found any fault in her. They saw her exactly as she was; a talented ballerina at the whim of a truly inept manager. Perhaps that was why Armando remained where he was. She could hear him almost shouting in his native tongue to another singer nearby him rather than exploding onto the stage to loudly voice his displeasure.

Edmund was turning to leave, gesturing to the conductor in the orchestra pit to begin again. Stamping her foot, Meg charged towards him, full of fire and ready to challenge him. His despicable treatment of her and the rest of the Company had gone on far enough. Caution be damned, she would not obey his ridiculous demands anymore. Let him fire her, let him throw her out of the home she loved so dearly; he was a tyrant, and tyrants always required immediately removal.

"Edmund!" she shouted, provoking him to whirl on his heels to face him. "This has gone on long enough, Edmund! If you insist to totally disregard the majority of your priorities as a manager, you force me to respond. I will _not_ rehearse this number any longer today, nor will I rehearse it tomorrow, or even the day after that. Until you devote enough time so that the rest of the cast gets the rehearsal they so desperately desire and need, I will not so much as grace any part of the stage with my presence. Do we have an understanding, _sir?_"

His green eyes, so vibrant and clear, blazed in fury. The tension between them was dangerously palpable, felt by every living being within earshot. "Meg," he ground out, stalking to her and standing mere inches away from her. "Do you think that because of our relationship to one another, I should give you any preferential treatment?" A shocked murmur went up through the stage.

Meg was left reeling, stunned to her very being by his accusatory words. "Relationship?" she gasped, eyes narrowing. "What relationship do we share, Monsieur, besides that of a tyrannical manager and his mistreated prima ballerina?"

He openly scoffed, tossing his golden head dramatically. "Don't pretend, Meg, it won't do any good. You know as well as I that our relationship runs deeper than that." She stumbled back a step, painfully aware of this new and dangerous game he was playing. He was deliberately insinuating that they were far more intimate than they appeared to be, incriminating her before the rest of her peers in another cruel attempt to break her.

The hushed whispers had grown into a roar of heated conversation. Undeserved shame shook her to her very core. She could feel bitter tears stinging her eyes, but by God, she would not shed them. Defenseless and undone, Meg prepared to retreat, the only option left available to her now.

"_A man who knows so little of opera cannot know very much of women." _A few frightened gasps, and then silence. The dark voice of a man had broken through with tremendous power, its taunting tones seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at all. Meg felt her body stiffen, her skin tingling at the familiarity of that voice.

"_I should think, Monsieur, that your time would be better spent devoted to your pathetic opera rather than spreading pathetic lies."_

Edmund appeared as lost and forlorn as a small animal, wide-eyed in fear and looking as though he would faint dead away. He puffed up his chest, gathering his wits about him as his fearful gaze darted all about the stage in an attempt to locate the disembodied voice. "Who are you?" he demanded, his voice surprisingly strong. "I won't tolerate childish pranks on any stage of mine!"

"_The stage you stand on and all of this Opera House belongs to ME!" _The voice roared.

"The Phantom!" a wiry stagehand cried out, grasping the arm of one of his companions beside him.

"The Phantom of the Opera has returned!" a soprano of the chorus echoed, and in a most dramatic display she collapsed into the arms of a nearby tenor. The Company erupted in fearful whispers and panicked shouts. And Meg remained still, so very still, waiting and watching for whatever Erik would do next.

"Phantom?" Edmund drawled disdainfully, glaring harshly at several people in the wings. "There is _no_ Phantom of the Opera. That deranged lunatic died in the fire, everyone knows that!"

"_Ah, but you can't kill a Phantom, can you?" _The voice seemed to be drawing nearer, yet still it was dreadfully omnipresent. _"I shall be seeing you presently, Monsieur. You have been warned." _There was a long period of expectant silence, but the voice did not speak again.

Edward swore loudly, his mask of bravery cracking. Outraged and petrified at once, he barked to the Company to cease their loud speculation. He was promptly ignored, and realizing he had lost control over the cast, reached out to seize Meg's wrist and dragged her along behind him as he stormed into the wings.

"You will tell me everything you know about the Phantom!" he demanded vehemently over his shoulder to her, narrowly avoiding knocking aside several loitering stage hands. "You were here when the madman first ran amok, and so you will help me root out whoever the fool is that thinks he can impersonate him."

Meg stumbled behind him, trying unsuccessfully to jerk her wrist free of his painful grip. "I cannot, I _will_ not help you!" she burst out. Dear heavens, where was he taking her? Not to his office for another horrid interrogation? "How do you know it is not the Phantom?" she challenged.

"I do not believe in ghosts!" he raged, and Meg found herself terrified. She'd never seen him in such a rage. Redoubling her efforts to escape him, Meg turned a pleading eye to search for anyone that could help her. They were deep backstage now, hastening through a labyrinth of props and set pieces. Even the occasional stagehand could not be found, likely having rushed to the stage after the Phantom's already infamous reintroduction to the Company.

It happened so quickly, Meg did not have time to cry out. There was a flurry of movement, a shadowy shape, and then she was pulled away by a powerful arm and wrenched free from Edmund. She found herself surrounded by darkness, held in the powerful embrace she recognized so well.

Suddenly and inexplicably alone, Edmund jerked around to see where Meg had escaped to. She must have torn herself away with incredible strength, for he was no weakling lad. Screaming his frustration to the heavens, he realized that she was gone, nowhere to be seen in the labyrinthine surroundings. He would have to seek his answers elsewhere, yet he was far from finished with his ballerina. Dead or alive, no man could change that.


	11. Threats and Apologies

**AU: I don't have much to say on this chapter, but I did want to thank all of you for your wonderful reviews. Honestly, I don't know what I'd do without your input! Thank you so much for the encouragement and please let me know what you think of my newest update. Big wheels are really turning now, and as I promised some time ago, some familiar faces will be thrown into the mix soon. Get excited ) .

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Like a panther that had allowed his prey to get away, Edmund stalked back to his office. An unfortunate stagehand crossed paths with the manager in a tight hallway and was promptly shoved aside, tossed to the ground as if he weighed nothing. Flying into his office, the manager let the door slam behind him with a satisfying _crack_.

It did not remain closed very long. Striding for a hand cut crystal decanter of strong cognac, Edmund just managed to grasp the decanter when the door burst open, slamming into the wall violently. Expecting that the stagehand had followed behind, Edmund whirled around fully prepared to unleash his ire on the daring little upstart but stopped short, nearly falling clear off his feet in his surprise.

For it was not a man who stood there at all, but a woman; one Antoinette Giry, to be precise. And if looks could kill, well, Edmund would be greeting his Maker even now. Descending upon him with unbound fury, a fire unlike he'd ever seen shone in the woman's eyes. "Monsieur Barton," she raged, "I am from the stage for one single hour to rehearse with the chorus girls, and all hell breaks loose!"

"Madame, I…" he sputtered, backing away as she approached ever closer. His back to a tall book shelf, there was no more room for him to retreat. She was at least a head shorter than him, and yet it was he who felt sure that bodily harm could be done to him at any moment.

"Ah, I see that you are playing dumb. It's a perfect role for you, Monsieur. Very well then, let us play this game of yours. Now, I will ask you this only once, and I will be sure to speak very slowly so that you are sure to understand." Raising her chin and glaring with him in terrible fury she demanded, "_Where is my daughter_?"

Was that what this was all about? Edmund came close to sighing in relief. Feeling most of his tension drain away, he relaxed to some degree, straightening his jacket and smiling down at her in a patient sort of way. "My dear Madame Giry," he began, turning away from her and strolling to his desk. He settled himself into the chair and even had the audacity to prop his feet upon the desk, resting his hands behind his head in a devil-may-care fashion.

"If I knew where your daughter was, I wouldn't be here right now. You see, after that little trick was pulled on the stage, no doubt by some witless stagehand too far into his drink, the Mademoiselle took it upon herself to disappear."

Not one to be ignored, and especially by a foul, arrogant man such as he, the ballet instructor stalked over to the desk, gripping its edge and leaning across its surface to meet him eye to eye. "I have it on very good authority that you and Meg appeared to leave the stage together. In fact, more than one person suggested that you were pulling her away quite against her will."

He could feel his original discomfort returning. The evidence did appear somewhat damning, yet despite his best efforts, he had nothing to do with Meg's disappearance. "Well, as a matter of fact, Meg and I did leave together to discuss how to best approach this ruthless prank that is sure to have all of the Opera House talking. However, our little ballerina disappeared before we left the stage entirely."

Eyeing him distrustfully, Madame Giry appeared to weigh his words carefully. "What do you mean, disappeared?" she demanded at length, releasing the desk's edge and drawing up to her full height.

"Vanished, slipped away, whatever you wish to call it. And while we're on this unpleasant topic, I should make mention that it's not the first time she's disappeared at a most inopportune time."

If Edmund was not mistaken, the woman's eyes appeared to shine with some new understanding. "Perhaps, Monsieur," she retorted scathingly, "Meg had good reason to 'disappear,' as you call it. You work her too hard, as I have told you again and again, and I will not stand for it any longer. Think carefully, Monsieur. If you do not end this strange behavior of yours, you will be without your prima ballerina _and_ without your ballet instructor."

Edmund could do little but regard her stonily. "There is one last thing." Her voice was dark, her eyes blazingly serious. And such eyes! Dear Lord, they were Meg's eyes, too. He'd never seen such eyes that could wield any emotion and will and hold a person hostage in their gaze. "I would not take the Opera Ghost very lightly. If he has returned, you would do well to heed his commands." Without further ado, Madame Giry turned on her heel and fled the room in a flurry of black skirts. Feeling in need of a drink more than ever, Edmund bounded out of his chair and back to the decanter. Pouring himself a liberal glass, he downed the contents swiftly. It was to be the first of many, for there was much to consider now. His game had been turned around on him, and he had little choice but to change the rules once again.

* * *

Swathed in darkness, Meg felt herself led by a sure and powerful arm wrapped around her waist. At first so sure of their destination, she was startled to find that they were ascending rather than descending. She said nothing, for what was there to be said? Wherever it was he was taking her, they would arrive soon enough. Numb with shock, weary from another endless day of rehearsal, she allowed herself to be carried away without a thought in her head.

Their journey through endless night ended rather abruptly. Meg felt the cloak that had been drawn around her form removed. Cool night air caressed her face and bare arms, so refreshing to her that she sighed aloud. They were on the roof of the Opera House, the glowing moon of the summer evening shining down upon them. That soft light illuminated the man who stood beside her, and it was no surprise at all to see that it was Erik who had stolen her away.

There were no words, only emotions and feelings that threatened to swallow her whole. Meg had not expected to see him so soon, no matter how her hopes and fears battled with one another in her speculation of just when she would see him again. Without a word she walked away from him, going to the edge to gaze over the vast city of Paris.

Erik watched her walk away, grateful that the dark night did little to reveal the longing in his eyes. He had not intended for this to happen. Snatching her away had not been part of the plan, and yet there was no hope for it. He had seen that mad man tear her away, seen the hopelessness of her futile attempts to free herself from him. Acting rashly, he had obeyed the demands of his heart, thrusting her from the manager's imprisoning hold and carrying her away to safety like some knight of long ago. Yet he was no knight, no hero at all. He could never escape his villainous stature with the world at large, and so there was little hope that she would ever see him as otherwise.

But he had to try. However long it took, however patient he must be, he would not give in so easily to the doubts that crossed his mind. Watching her now, seeing her in the flesh for the first time in three days, it was nearly impossible not to give into the passions that were rising within him. God, but she was beautiful. How had he never seen her graceful beauty in all these years? He had been living in the Catacombs even when she had been born, had vaguely been aware of Antoinette raising her daughter as a tireless widow. He dared to imagine if it had been Meg and not Christine that his dark obsession had been drawn to. What would have become of them then?

"I love Paris in the summer." Meg had spoken so softly, at first Erik thought he was imagining things. He approached her slowly, careful not to startle her. She continued, almost entirely to herself, "Even the most beautiful English day could never compare to a warm Parisian night. Edmund was always trying to convince me that there was nothing more lovely in the world than his England. It was England this, England that, every opportunity he had. He never knew that while he droned on and on, my thoughts were far away and free, gliding on the breeze of those Parisian nights I love so much."

Meg was lost in her thoughts, far away in another time and place. She could see places and faces she'd left behind so recently, across the Channel in England. It had been a lovely place, truly, and for five years it had been her home. But Paris, beautiful Paris… To her, there was no comparison.

Aware of his presence beside her, Meg's body jerked as her mind returned firmly to reality. Erik had rescued her for the moment, but she was still terribly, unerringly _angry_ with him. Worse than that, her heart felt shattered into a million pieces after his cruel treatment. It was enough that he had been so hard on her without any real provocation that she could find, but to know that her heart had bled inwardly for him was a blow to her pride she was not prepared to face.

"I must leave the Opera House." Those words, spoken so hastily, spilled from her lips of their own accord. She was shocked at her own statement, wondering when it was that her mind had so taken over her that it now turned thoughts into words without her permission.

"Leave?" Erik echoed, remaining a careful distance away from her.

"Yes. No! Oh, I don't know!" She pounded her fists on the ledge in frustration, hating herself for weakening before him. How she desired to tell him everything, to commit her fears into his safekeeping and to rely on his strength, his cunning, even his compassion to guide her through these dark days that had found her. Edmund was eating away at her, breaking her down through the power he held over her as her employer. Her choices were so limited: She could stay, going to battle every conceivable moment to maintain her dignity, her sanity, even her health despite Edmund's cruel attempts; or, she could leave, back to England, to France, _America_, even. God in Heaven, all she had wanted was to dance. Why couldn't she _just dance_?

"You cannot let him win, Meg." He was quiet, almost pleading. For whatever reason, his words enraged her. It was easy for him to say such things. He, who had hidden himself away for years, he did not have to live in the modern world, forced to suffer the whims of a vengeful employer. Beyond that, he was a _man_. How could he possibly understand what it was like to be the object of a man's obsession?

"Oh, but I can!" she railed, turning to face him with fire in her eyes. "I can let him win, as you call it. Let him chase me away, let him be the victor of this cruel game he plays! At least then there will be some sanity in my life again, some semblance of normalcy when I am free from him!"

"Meg…" Erik began, but she would not let him continue. His gently spoken interruption only seemed to anger her further.

"And _you_," she glared darkly, taking a step closer. "You, who promised me protection and then threw it in my face! You play me songs that pierce my soul, speak to me in a way that fairly begs my heart to give in. Helpless you called me, _helpless_! Well, you know something, _Monsieur Le Phantome, _I _am_ helpless. I am weaker in strength than you and Edmund. It was God's design, not mine! And yes, I must weather your emotional outbursts and follow listlessly wherever you drag me. You could end my life with very little trouble, and I, alas, would be utterly and completely _helpless_."

She drew in a deep breath, yet she was far from finished. "And for all this helplessness, do you not think that I desire to be otherwise? Do you not suppose that I dream of making my own choices and living my own life without fear of those that could harm me despite my best efforts? I am tired of this game, Erik. I am tired of finding grief and sadness in the one place I thought to call home again. Oh, God, that I had never come back! Had I remained in England, had I just never returned to Paris…"

She was spent, possessed of no more words to throw at him. Terribly weary, her knees gave in and she was falling to the ground. Erik was there to steady her, his powerful arms gathered around her to keep her aloft. She was so fatigued, even her adamant mind could no longer protest as her heart rejoiced at his nearness.

"What of your heart, Meg?" Erik whispered against her soft hair, embracing her fiercely. "My heart?" she murmured, unable to follow him.

"You spoke of your heart, Meg. What did you mean?"

"I-I--my heart? No, I said nothing of the sort…" Erik sighed raggedly, letting his question drop and easing his hold on her. He had heard her, loud and clear. Her heart was involved. It was obvious she had not meant to reveal that glorious truth, did not even realize what she had said, but now he knew.

She was not ready for love, then. It was too soon for her, and Erik realized that he could not blame her. His own feelings had only recently been realized, so it was not so surprising that her own would take time to take wing. A truce was called for, something to help them at least restore their strange friendship. It could never be as it was before, he was not foolish enough to believe that, but they could find common ground again to begin anew.

"Meg," he breathed, aching sincerity weighing his words. "I am sorry for hurting you. There is…nothing that can excuse what I have done." Apologizing was not an easy thing for the Opera Ghost. It sounded foreign on his tongue, and it was. Very foreign.

Held safe in his arms, it took some time for his words to reach through the haze of Meg's mind. He was apologizing. Her heart seemed to skip a beat as she realized that she had already forgiven him.

"It is all right," she promised him softly, stunned that her anger could slip away so suddenly and so thoroughly. She wanted to mend their strange relationship, desired to have him near to her once more. "It is over and done with. Just please, for the sake of my sanity, don't ever do it again."

Erik released her reluctantly, knowing full and well that if he did not let her go now, he would be tempted to hold onto her forever. She was so warm and soft in his arms, it was almost easy to believe that she would willingly be his. But the time had not yet come, and he could be a patient man. Meg had forgiven him, and that was enough for now. There would be more, he vowed, but later, always later.

"Meg, you cannot let Edmund drive you away from here. Need I remind you that it is _my_ Opera House? He does not have the power to make you leave." Meg sighed, folding her arms over her chest. They were back to this again, were they? Very well, she could not deny that it needed discussing. She craved his wisdom, his insight.

"I do not want to be chased away," she admitted somewhat bitterly, chewing on her lower lip in an old childhood habit. "But he is breaking me down, at least physically. I told him that I would not tolerate it any longer, but I don't know if my words had any effect."

"I heard you," Erik murmured, warm pride filling his voice. "You were magnificent, Meg. No shrinking nymph ever stood up to a man like that."

She smiled at his reference. "It was not I who was magnificent, Erik," she returned, her eyes shining in remembrance. "When you spoke on the stage…I swear to you, Edmund came very close to fainting! I've never seen him so frightened. He hides it well, but you have certainly struck some well deserved fear into his heart."

"Yes, but it seems he will not be easy to convince."

"A little time will change that," Meg assured him. "Between my mother and me, not to mention an already very superstitious Company, Edmund will very shortly become convinced that you are real." She paused, glancing up at Erik a little uncertainly. "But Erik," she questioned softly, "why did you announce yourself to him, to the whole Company?"

Erik met her gaze intently, the moonlight's brightening glow illuminating his enigmatic eyes in such a way that Meg felt her heart skip a beat for the second time that night. "It was time for me to return from the ashes," he told her solemnly, his gaze never faltering. "I am dissatisfied with how my Opera House is being run, and I will not stand idly by while that ignorant fool runs things into the ground. If my Opera House is to return to its former glory, and I swear to you that it shall, then the new manager will have to be put back into his place." _Or disposed of_, Erik thought to himself. Whether he meant it or not, it was best not to let Meg in on that little detail.

"All of Paris will be buzzing with news of your return," Meg laughed. "If you wanted to stir up trouble, you certainly did a wonderful job of it."

"I never do anything without putting my whole heart into it, Meg." His words held another meaning. Meg could hear it, but she could not decipher it. Perplexed and perhaps even a little alarmed, she committed his words to memory, sure to ponder over them when she found a blissful moment of solitude.

"We must return," she reminded him, her thoughts going to her mother.

His thoughts apparently turned in the same direction. "No doubt Madame Giry will be worried for you. She keeps a close eye over you, for which I am grateful." Meg felt touched by his words, ever careful not to show it. Nodding indifferently, she hurried for the door that would take her back inside, wondering for the first time just how Erik had led them to the rooftop. Tempted to ask him, she decided it was a question for another time. For no sooner had she thrown open the door and hurried inside, she realized that he had disappeared.


	12. The Truth of the Matter

**AN: I think my long absence scared a few of you into thinking that I wasn't coming back...but here I am! Let me start by saying that, no, I will not be giving up on this story. The plot is in place, the wheels are turning, and the excitement is only just beginning. This chapter, however, eluded me. I'm still not entirely satisfied with the result, but all of my lovely readers deserve an update after my lengthy disappearance. **

**Also, this chapter is dedicated to Hot4Gerry and alance07 for giving me an extra push to get going. Thank you for the much needed encouragement!

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The stage was still bustling with activity when Meg found her way back. The hour was late, but the gossip was simply too delicious for the Company to pass up now that the Opera Ghost had made a grand reappearance. Her legs were sore, her eyes heavy, and her heart fluttered madly while she struggled to gain control of her thoughts. Sleep was exactly what she needed, and with that in mind, she attempted to slip through the wings as quietly as possible.

Naturally, her goal proved to be much more difficult than she realized. She had only taken a few quick steps before she was practically assaulted by a mass of excited chorus girls, adorned in their gauzy tutus and eager to hear a firsthand account of the evening's dramatic event.

"Tell us, please, Mademoiselle Giry!"

"Oh, yes, please! We are too disappointed that we were not here ourselves!"

"Were you frightened? Tell us about the, oh, what is it called? The Strange Incident, yes! Tell us about that, we know you were here when it happened!"

Meg's head was spinning, but she didn't have the heart to dismiss the girls. Not five years past she had been a chorus girl herself, and she knew well the excitement a bit of scintillating gossip could create. Everything was different now, though. How could she tell stories of a supernatural sort knowing how very real the Opera Ghost was?

"Meg!" A new voice had entered the fray. Breaking through the crowd of young girls, Martine wasted no time ushering Meg away. "You can ask her your questions later," her friend announced to the disappointed chorus girls, marching away and turning a corner.

"Martine, you are an absolute angel, as usual," Meg sighed, looping a slender arm through one of Martine's. "I've become something of a celebrity, haven't I?"

The raven haired woman snorted, rolling her sparkling eyes in a teasing manner. "It won't be long before you're acting like La Carlotta herself. I knew your new position would go to your head."

"Don't be so wicked," Meg laughed, and despite her fatigue, despite her troubles, despite _everything_, she was feeling like herself again, if at least for the moment. Could Erik have had something to do with that? Surely seeing him again wasn't enough to cheer her so…

"I have always been wicked and I always will be," Martine announced dramatically, throwing her free arm into the air with great enthusiasm. "It is my job to keep you well costumed _and_ to lift your flagging spirits with my boorish behavior and otherwise spirited ways."

"Spirited? Hardly," Meg scoffed, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "Compared to the Martine I once knew, you really are an angel. As I recall, the old Martine used to sneak onto the catwalks with some of the stagehands and--"

"Really, Meg!" Martine hastily interjected, her eyes shining in good humor. "Believe me when I say that I am very much aware of my, well, sinful past. A few years in the country did work some magic on me, just as my poor mother predicted, and I am now cured of my youthful…_passions._"

Casting a dubious glance at her friend, Meg threw back her head and laughed again, drawing her arm out from Martine's and throwing it around her shoulders in a friendly half-embrace. "That is something I'll have to see to believe," she whispered conspiratorially into her ear. "We haven't been back long, and sooner or later I'm sure you'll find some new man to pursue with your usual reckless abandon."

Martine did not bother arguing, choosing to laugh with her instead. Their passage through the Opera House ended as they arrived at the door to Madame Giry's rooms. Martine grew serious, facing Meg and taking her hands in her own. "Your mother has been in something of a tizzy since you, well, disappeared. Again. I won't ask questions now, but I do expect to hear where it is you have been sneaking off to. Better still, I expected to hear with _whom_, for I am sure there must be a handsome man somewhere in the equation." If only Martine knew how right she was. Saying no more, they bid one another a fond farewell with a shared promise to spend more time catching up soon. Coming up with a plausible excuse for her friend was only one of Meg's many worries, yet she felt strangely unaffected by them now. Still feeling an odd glow that seemed to emanate directly from her heart, she slipped through the unlocked door with a small smile and let it close quietly behind her.

Antoinette Giry's apartments were not particularly large, but after serving the Opera House for many faithful years, the rooms given to her following the building's reconstruction were some of the finest offered to those who lived within the establishment. She kept them tastefully decorated, as elegant in their simplicity as the woman that inhabited them. A comfortable sitting room was the first of the rooms, and it was there that Meg found her mother pacing in an agitated way.

"Maman, I am well!" she hastily informed her parent, rushing to throw herself into her open arms.

"Yes, my child, I know," Madame Giry sighed, closing her eyes as she held her daughter close to her. "When I could not find you, I went to the Manager myself after hearing that he was the man you had last been seen with. It did not take me long to discover that you were with _another_ man entirely." Pulling back, she held her at arms length. "It is true, then? Erik has established himself as the Opera Ghost once more?"

Meg nodded, perplexed as butterflies of excitement fluttered deep in her stomach. "It is true, Maman. And it was Erik who whisked me away from Edmund, as if I didn't owe him already for keeping me out of that man's path."

Letting her hands fall away, Madame Giry turned and resumed her pacing, walking to one side of the room and back again. "I was not afraid for you when I realized who you were with, Meg. Truth be told, I am not entirely comfortable with the idea that you and Erik seem to spend so much time together, but I am confident that Erik has no designs to harm you. I am not so sure when it comes to the Manager." She changed direction abruptly, striding to a burgundy chaise and gracefully seating herself upon it.

"I warned him that all of this rehearsal nonsense must end, or you and I would be forced to find a new place of residence to bestow our talents upon. Perhaps you will think me too hasty, my child, but I can no longer stand aside while you are used so abominably ill." Her eyes held a fire in them, and her hands were clenched in her lap as she struggled against her ever rising ire. "And to think, I found nothing wrong with him when we were first introduced! I thought him a very ordinary gentleman, in fact. I could not have been further from the truth."

Meg sat beside her mother and placed an arm lovingly around her waist. "He was, Maman, once. Long ago, when we first met, he was every bit a gentleman. Edmund was like no one I had ever met before. He was charming, handsome, and obviously extremely well-bred. Even more than that, he had a vivacity that I simply adored, and he had such a lovely sense of humor." Madame Giry regarded her daughter with a look of pure disbelief.

"He acts, then, as though he has lost his mind," she said with feeling.

"I'm afraid you may be right," Meg confided, leaning her head on her mother's strong shoulder. The inexplicable happiness she had felt moments before was rapidly fading away, replaced with a thick sense of dread that left the woman nearly shaking. The time had come, she realized with no small amount of fear and regret. There was more to her history with Edmund, and now she felt at last that she could confide those painful memories to the mother she loved so dearly.

"I have not told you everything about Edmund and I, Maman," she hesitantly began, her body stiffening. Her mother wrapped an arm about her waist in response, drawing her closer into her embrace. Meg drew in a deep breath, swallowed, and continued. "After I discovered he was intimate with another woman--and my friend, no less--Edmund came to see me. I broke off our engagement, told him to leave, to get out. His eyes…I've never seen such a horrible, ferocious look. It was like he had transformed in an instant, hardening into a stranger I had never known before."

Tears slipped silently from her haunted eyes. "He tried to…take me by force," she whispered. "He threw himself at me, attacked me... And then, just when I knew there was nothing I could do to save myself from his intentions, he stopped. I saw sanity return to his eyes, but it was too late. He didn't seem to remember where he was, what he was doing or what had happened. I turned from him and he left in a daze. Two days later, he left for London, and that was the last I saw of him until I returned to Paris."

Mother and daughter sat in silence for a long while, each one consumed with powerful emotions. Meg could feel her mother's tears dropping on her head, trailing down her forehead and mingling with her own. When Madame Giry did speak, it was with such sadness that Meg felt her heart stir painfully. "If I had known, Meg…" she began, but was quickly overcome by a choked sob. She tried again, "If I had known, I would have come to you with wings on my feet. And still you stayed and said nothing, when I am sure your heart must have longed for the comforts of a safe haven. Oh, Meg, my sweet child…oh, _Meg_…"

Neither of them would ever forget this moment, when mother and daughter shared in the bitterness of despair and regret, shared in love for one another and loathing for the man who would have harmed Meg so grievously. In time their tears were stopped, and Madame Giry's grief rapidly transformed into a true fury that would have rivaled any angel of vengeance. It took all of Meg's careful persuasion to convince her mother that it would come to no good to confront Edmund, even though he surely deserved to be punished in some way for his actions. "He did not succeed," she reminded her mother again and again, until finally Madame Giry was freed from her murderous rage and could see some reason.

"What is to be done?" the dance instructor sighed wearily, resuming for the second time her steady pace across the room. "You cannot answer to a man who forced himself on you and no doubt desires to try again. You would be safer in England, Meg, or Italy, perhaps."

"No!" Meg gasped, startled at such a suggestion. Madame Giry halted, bestowing a strange look upon her. "I will not be chased away," she vowed, determinedly turning away from her mother's astonished gaze. "The time for that has long since passed. Edmund may have bought himself a position here, but the Opera House is not _his_. When I am here, I am home. I will not leave without a fight. I know that now." Her impassioned words were truly spoken from her heart, and in the back of her mind she praised Erik for inspiring her. The battle had only just begun, and she knew with every fiber of her being that Edmund would not, _could _not gain a victory over her.

A reluctant smile spread across Madame Giry's face. Pride filled her eyes, mingled with that glow of determination that Meg knew so well. Going to her daughter, she took her hands and pulled her gently from the chaise so that they stood face to face. "How right you are, my Meg," she said softly, nodding slowly. "Managers come and go, like so many things in life. I cannot begin to say how I will be able to pretend that I do not know what he has done, but for your sake I will try. I swear to you, if there is anything within my power that will send _that man_ far away from here, I will do it."

"As would I," Meg agreed. "He is fighting a losing battle. He just doesn't know it yet." She paused to yawn, smiling sheepishly. "As for me, I'm losing my own battle—to exhaustion." Laughing softly, she pecked her mother on the cheek and turned away. "We'll talk more soon, Maman. A good night's rest will do everyone some good."

"One more thing, Meg," Madame Giry interjected. "I have had a letter."

"A letter?"

"From Christine." This was puzzling indeed. Meg turned back to face her mother, frowning perplexedly.

"What reason does Christine have to write to you? She has never done so before…"

"It was to be a surprise," Madame Giry admitted, clasping her hands in front of her. "Christine and her husband will be attending the gala on opening night. Christine wrote that she simply could not miss your debut as prima ballerina. I would never wish to rob you of a surprise, but I thought that, under the circumstances, you should be prepared."

Meg knew exactly what her mother was insinuating. Prepared for Erik's reaction, once he realized that the woman he had loved enough to kill for was back in his domain. Prepared to be forgotten and cast back into a secondary role in the drama they all played in, back into the wings where she could only watch and yearn. She fought valiantly to disguise her emotions, smiling weakly as she nodded and fled the room. Fortunately her room was just next door to her mother's suites, and in a few short steps she had returned to the safety of her room.

Christine was returning. Meg should have been happy. Not long ago, she would have been overjoyed to be reunited with her childhood friend. Instead, jealousy was roiling within her, churning deep her insides and screaming for release. She fought valiantly against the urge to pick up a nearby object and throw it, settling instead to throw herself on her bed like a petulant child.

She was weary. Oh, god, how weary she was. She had exhausted all the extreme emotions she could think of, having just survived an evening so filled with confrontations and extremes that she could scarcely imagine how it had all transpired. Anger, disappointment, joy, jealousy, hope, love—

_Love._

No, that couldn't be right, unless it was for her mother or for Martine, surely… Her heart screamed the truth at her, pleading with her to respond.

She had felt love. Love for Erik, for the Opera Ghost.

For _her_ Opera Ghost, who was not hers at all. Now Christine would swoop in and—

Meg's frantic thoughts dissipated, for all at once she knew she was not alone. Raising her head from the bed, she queried into the darkness, "Erik?"

Silence. And then, "Yes, Meg. I am here."

Relief poured through her, and it took all of her remaining strength not to leap off of the bed and run to him. He approached her bed gracefully, blanketed in the shadows of the night that were so becoming of him. His mask was firmly in place, of course, but as he knelt beside the bed, Meg could detect a strange, haunted look emanating from his beautiful eyes.

"Why did you not tell me?" he demanded in a deceptively quiet voice. Meg realized that Erik knew everything. He had been listening, of _course_ he had been listening. Knowing Erik, and she truly thought that she did, he would have kept a close eye on her until she reached the safety or her rooms. And now he knew everything.

She was tempted to turn away from him, and would have done so had he not anticipated this and grasped her chin in his gloved hand. He refused to let her look away, holding her prisoner with his gentle hand and his penetrating gaze. "He _hurt_ you, Meg, and far more than emotionally, as you led me to believe."

"Yes, he did," she replied quietly, unsure of what more there was to say. If he had heard her conversation with her mother, then he must have been well aware of her feelings on the entire matter. "I'm through shedding tears over it," she added after a lengthy pause. "I will never forgive Edmund, but I won't cower before him, either. I've made up my mind, and my heart, as well."

Erik released her abruptly, rising and stalking to the far side of the room and into the shadows. Meg sat up immediately, peering into the darkness he had surrounded himself in. "I should _kill_ him," he ground out, his voice low and dangerous.

"Erik, please," Meg interceded, and she heard Erik draw in a sharp breath. "Don't say things like that! Promise me."

"Promise you what?" he demanded scathingly.

"Promise me that you won't hurt him."

"How can you defend him, that wolf in sheep's clothing? Is it not obvious that his designs on you are just as sinister as before?"

"Erik, please--"

"He is ruthless, determined, insatiable…and I should know! When a man is in a state like that, there's no telling what he'll resort to in order to attain his goal. Meg, you'll never be safe from him until he's dead."

A chill descended on her, and she folded her arms around her in an effort to ward it off. "I am hardly friendless," she argued. "I have family and friends who would surely notice if something happened! Edmund would not be foolish enough to believe otherwise."

"But what makes you think that he would care?" Erik countered, stepping closer towards her. "What makes you think he wouldn't risk everything within his power to win? How can you be so reckless about your own well being, Meg?"

"It's not me I worry about, it's _you_!" she burst out, unable to contain her frustration any longer.

"Me?" Erik repeated, finally at a loss for words.

"Yes, you! For all the changes that you have made, for all the remorse you feel for the deeds you have committed, you could throw it all away in a moment of passion! You speak of killing him like it's little more than a stroll in the park, something simple and necessary and free of consequences! It would break my heart to see you return to that desperate, violent man that you were, and worse still if you did so because of me."

Silence followed her passionate outburst. She could not see his face well enough to read whatever emotions could have been written there, but she felt the electricity between them stronger than ever before. Was he pleased, or was he outraged? She had spoken of her heart for the second time in one evening. How would he take such an unknowing confession? And would any of it matter once Christine returned to their lives?

"You should rest." His tone of voice was almost fatherly and brooked no refusal. Wearily she nodded in agreement, resigned to the fact that there was no more to be said. Not everything could be resolved with words and explanations, not in one night. Still attired in her bright costume, Meg was too tired to even change. Lying back against the bed, she could already feel sleep creeping over her.

So close to sleep was she that she was only mildly surprised when two strong arms scooped her up. Erik pulled back the bedding and laid her gently down again, smoothing the blankets over her petite form and carefully brushing back loose curls from her face. In the morning she would doubt he had done so at all, but for now she sighed in contentment, drifting away into dreamless sleep.

"We'll talk tomorrow," she mumbled.

"Yes, Meg, tomorrow," Erik soothed, stepping away from the bed. He knew what was to be done. If only Meg knew how powerful the rage was that consumed him. He had been Christine's Angel of Music. Now he would be Meg's Angel of Vengeance. Though he had made no promises to her, still he would abide by her stipulations. The Manager would not be harmed...physically. Erik did not need to kill a man to make him suffer.

He stayed with her through the night, standing as a silent sentinel, but once the morning dawned, he was gone.


	13. The Revealing

AN: Some of you may be surprised to see me updating so soon...and that's exactly why I did it! I have been putting off updates for this story for too long, and it's high time I put some serious work into finishing it. That being said, the story is far from being finished, but I hope this chapter will satisfy my darling readers to some degree.

I do want to note that in this chapter Meg does in fact make her debut as a singer. I bring it up because, yes, it's probably a bit cliched. Let me defend myself. In the ALW/2004 Joel Schumacher Movie version that this is largely based off of (Another disclaimer! It belongs to them and not to me! Gaston Leroux's, too, but _not mine_!), Meg does happen to sing. It was clear to me that she was holding back on some obvious talent, and in my little tale it seems perfectly logical that she would work to perfect her own voice in addition to her dancing. So please don't hate me, if you were feeling so inclined.

Okay, that's probably enough as far as the author's notes go...reviews are greatly appreciated and my continued thanks to those that already have!

* * *

The Phantom had plans. Elaborate plans, at that—he had a reputation to live up to, after all, and far be it from him to disappoint the many waiting for him to strike. And oh, how perfect they had all been, each one carefully devised to exhibit just the right amount of flair and drama to keep the Manager and all others who opposed him in their rightful places. 

Christine did not fit into any of those plans—far, far from it, in fact.

Erik knew much of inner turmoil, but this was going beyond the pale. He had traversed the room at the heart of his lair several times now, yet still he had no answers. Sleep eluded him, as it often did, leaving him not only emotionally spent but physically exhausted, as well. Seven nights had been spent in this fashion, walking the floor until light of dawn, not that it ever reached his darkness deep as Hell. The days, too, were often spent in this manner, though there was one plan, at least, still intact that yet required much attention.

Such a question would not answer itself. What was to be done? Wasn't it enough to have heard the truth of the Manager and his treatment of Meg? Did fate really find it necessary to reveal that the siren he had killed for, that he had spent five years loathing and loving and finally forgetting, was returning? Oh, how his heart was torn. It had never felt whole to begin with, but now it was split asunder, cut into uneven halves between two women so different and so alike that a decision would be damned near impossible to make.

On the one hand, there was revenge. Revenge was a dish he had once delighted to serve, and even now it spurred him on when that which he loved—his Opera House, his music, his _Meg_—was threatened in any way. How easy it would be to show Christine Daae—Christine _de Chagny, _rather—the mistake of choosing another and leaving her Angel of Music behind. It would be nothing to him to strike at her husband, to crush the pretty little Viscount firmly beneath his booted feet. Five years had done nothing to ease the hate he felt for the man. He had shown them mercy, of course, yet there was still a small part of him that wondered at his own decision.

He abandoned the room, wandering along the waterfront and kicking at a particularly fat rat that scurried across his path. The more he thought on it, the more he could not deny that the idea of revenge against Christine and her little husband was, in a word, unappealing. Perhaps he had gone soft. Five years in isolation could do that to a person, provided it did not drive him to insanity first. In those dark days, there had been moments when Erik was not entirely certain his mind would remain intact. Even his beautiful music had done little to soothe his gaping wounds that festered for so long beneath the Opera House, though in time they had ebbed and life had returned to the establishment once more.

The more he pondered the idea of revenge, the more determined he was that he did not desire it. Yes, perhaps there was some humanity left in him after all. He could not tell whether that pleased him or enraged him. Only time would reveal how a Phantom responded to seeds of humanity.

So then, where did that leave him? He loved Meg. It was a fact that only grew stronger each day. He did not think that he loved Christine anymore, but the mere thought of seeing her again made him doubt that he had totally lost all regard for her. "One does not lose sight of one's obsession so easily," he voiced aloud, breaking the murky silence surrounding him. Would man or monster prevail when his eyes beheld the dark haired beauty again?

If there was a God, though Erik had never truly believed in one, nothing would change when the songbird returned. Not just for his sake, but for Meg's as well. She believed in him. He had heard those words from her very lips. He had promised her protection; how could he fail her now? Let the ghosts from his past come for him. He would not abandon his course. Whatever came in the wake of Raoul and Christine de Chagny, the fact remained that he had a job to do. The Manager was due for some rude awakenings, and Erik was only too delighted to deliver said awakenings in his own devious ways.

He smiled grimly at that thought. Enough time had been spent pouring over his doomed plans and a decision that was yet forthcoming. The Manager was due for a personal call.

* * *

Paperwork was always so damned tedious. It was something that Edmund had not bargained for. When he had bought his way into the Opera House, he had had such notions of fame and notoriety that he hadn't even bothered to consider all of the unavoidable business aspects associated with it. The enterprise he was undertaking was very much a business venture. His blustering father had reminded him of that more than once before Edmund had crossed the Channel to start his new life. 

Of course he hadn't listened. When wasn't the old man blustering about something or other? Scribbling his signature across sheet after sheet, the Manager finally grew weary of it all and threw down his pen in disgust. Grasping for his cigar box with greedy hands, he pulled one of the long cigars from the box and was just preparing to light it when a mysterious voice interrupted his solitude.

"_Tired already, Monsieur? Surely a good cigar can do little to help your incompetence. Smoke all you like. It will not make your paperwork disappear."_

Edmund glared in all directions, rising slowly from his desk and letting the cigar slip from his hand. It rolled across the cluttered surface of the desk and fell to the carpeted floor unheeded. "Where are you?" he demanded, backing away from his chair and up against the bookcase. "I am not afraid of you! Come out and fight me like a man, you damned foolish little prankster!"

"I'm _here._" Edmund gasped, shoving away from the bookcase. The voice had come from _behind_ it, he was absolutely certain. "Not possible…not possible…" he muttered again and again. His eyes darted around the room while his hand fumbled in a deep desk drawer. In a moment he had what he was looking for. A small pistol was grasped in his hand.

"I dare you to face me," he taunted meekly, raising the pistol to the level of his eyes.

"_But Monsieur…a Phantom has no face."_

"I don't believe in Phantoms!" Edmund exploded, swinging the pistol about wildly in the new direction the voice had come from. "I don't believe in ghosts, spirits, pixies or otherwise! You are flesh and blood and I shall see you punished for your games!"

"_The games have just begun, Monsieur. You are a servant to my Opera House, and therefore you are a servant to me. The sooner you learn your place here, the better. I have a number of, shall we say, stipulations to give you."_

"The hell you do," Edmund sputtered, by now having fumbled his way to the center of the room. He lingered there uncertainly, eyes glassy with fear as they sought the ever changing source of the horrible voice.

"_You should feel honored. Before, I gave my commands in mere missives. I have decided to visit with you personally whenever things are not to my liking."_

"To your liking," the Manager repeated dumbly. "To your…liking?"

"_See to your rehearsals, Monsieur. The opening gala draws near and there is still much work to do. I assure you that the next opera will be of my choosing. Until then, I would suggest you do what you can to salvage the wreck you have selected."_

"The devil you say! I will choose! I and only _I_ will choose! You cannot frighten me!" There was no response. Drenched in sweat, Edmund collapsed into a chair, keeping a loose grip on his pistol. Thinking himself alone again, he was utterly unprepared for the whisper of the ghoulish voice just beside his ear…

"_Boo."_

He tumbled from the chair in a dead faint.

* * *

Meg knew dread as she had never known it before. Everything was in place—her costume was divine, thanks to Martine's enormous talents as Costume Mistress, her hair and makeup was flawless, thanks to the talents of the various women employed in that particular field, and now she only awaited her cue to go onstage. She was ready to play the part in nearly every aspect. As Sorsha, she wore a green silk gown with many sheer, flowing folds comprising the skirt, and the sleeves were made of a similar material that fell to her wrists but hung loosely about her arms. The bodice was of a stiffer material and a sage green, though Martine had thankfully laced it loosely enough that Meg could still breathe. She _did_ have to sing in it, after all. 

And therein laid the source of Meg's powerful case of nerves. The moment had arrived for the dancer-turned-singer to rehearse in front of the entire Company. Worse still, she knew that two very different men would each be listening in carefully to her solo work. She could not believe that the outcome with either would be pleasant. Edmund would no doubt take the opportunity to praise her to high heaven, continuing with the new plan of action he had apparently put in place since he realized his failure in trying to physically subdue her spirit through endless rehearsals. The man was all flattery and flowery words anymore, and the past several days had been filled with his most unwanted attentions whenever he found her alone or otherwise unoccupied.

Still, she could not help but notice that something was wrong with Edmund. He was less daring, less persistent in everything he did. The rest of the Company was grateful, and she really couldn't complain that her workload had lightened considerably for the last week and a half. But what had happened? Erik had promised her not to do anything, hadn't he? Or had his lack of response that night in her room signaled a refusal to her request rather than acquiescence? It was all so confusing.

Add to it all that she had barely seen Erik since that night, and the dancer found that she was nearly undone. Oh, life went on as usual. Rehearsals continued and time was spent with her mother and Martine and other members of the cast that she was quickly growing fond of. But at night she waited, seized with the hope that Erik would come to her. She did not care for what reason. So long as he was near, she was at peace. When he was not beside her, the woman's mind turned to darker thoughts. In less than a week Christine and Raoul would arrive, and then it was very likely to her that all of her newfound hopes and dreams would come to naught.

She would not deceive herself. His absences as of late could only signal one thing; he was awaiting Christine's return and no longer had time for the pale, thin dancer that he had sworn to protect. He had fulfilled his promise well and continued to do so, though need for protection seemed less and less needed as the days progressed. How could Meg not believe that her protector was still in love with his old protégé, no matter what denials he had offered her before? These were only some of the thoughts that preyed on her in the night alongside feelings and emotions that she was loathe to identify.

And now she would sing, and he would hear, and it would serve only to justify his love for Christine. For whose voice could hold a candle next to the former Miss Daae's glorious soprano?

"Mademoiselle, you're on," a stagehand urged, giving her an encouraging smile. She nodded in his direction and returned his smile with a weak one of her own. Composing herself as best she could, she hurried onstage as the curtain fell for the scene change. Stagehands flurried all around her, deftly maneuvering set pieces and creating an entirely new setting for the scene to take place in. The stage was transformed from a stately courtyard to a young forest, complete with willowy trees and flowering plants. There were even armfuls of green leafs scattered across the stage, meant to gently swirl at Meg's feet as she sang to the evil magician her character had fallen in love with.

Arms aloft and standing tall and graceful, she was ready. She was meant to appear as if she had just turned back into her human form after taking on the appearance of a tree, forest nymph that she was, and with her dancer's body and careful control over her every feature, she looked exactly so. Alphonse Pierpont, the middle aged baritone who played the Magician, also smiled encouragingly from where he stood across the stage. It was helpful to know that everyone appeared to be cheering her on but her extreme unease did not lessen. It was too late for second thoughts. The curtains were drawn open again and the scene began.

Music swelled from the pit. Alphonse stalked across the stage, cloak swirling around him in a carefully contrived and menacing way. Meg gasped and backed away, matching him step for step. As the Magician, Alphonse sang-

_At last have I found you,  
__Hiding nymph in the sunlight  
__Stop all your resistance  
__Let your passions ignite_

The lyrics really were atrocious, but Meg had no time or thought for it. Alphonse took Meg by her wrists, gently tugging her in a way that looked much more violent than it really was and flung her to ground, directly in the center of the stage. Meg tumbled with just the right amount of flair, raising her arms to ward off the spell that Alphonse's Magician was beginning to weave with great dramatic arm gestures.

"_Stop!"_ she cried out as Sorsha, one arm extended towards him in a perfectly pleading gesture. Drawing a deep breath, she sang-

_O Dark Magician,  
__With spells and with oaths  
__You seek to command me;  
__Do you not yet know?_

_You've bound me already  
__With a magic most dark  
__I can no longer struggle;  
__You've stolen my heart!_

The music continued, but otherwise there was absolute silence. Stagehands and members of the Company gathered in the wings, watching wide-eyed and in rapt attention. They'd had their doubts, but one thing was now quite clear; Meg Giry could _sing_.

And hidden away in the shadows of Box Five, the Opera Ghost himself was nearly reeling. Erik had been there for some time, unbeknownst to all except, perhaps, the two Giry women. Antoinette Giry stood in the wings with the others, eyes glowing from tears of pride. Those eyes, so dark and intelligent, flickered from her daughter's form to the darkened box that Erik inhabited. Of course she suspected he was there, Erik shouldn't wonder. But he had no time for that now.

He did not know what he had expected from the woman he had come to love. He had trained Christine Daae himself and naturally and rightfully knew that Meg would not sing as well as his former student. Yet a comparison between the two was reprehensible, he found. If he had been forced to place judgment, Christine would of course still be considered the superior singer. But there was so much more than technique to be acknowledged.

Christine's voice made the angels weep. Meg's voice, full of sweeping, innocent seduction, could have charmed demons from wherever they hid. She was a soprano in the technical sense, but her tone was incredibly lyrical. She could not, perhaps, conquer the intricate and airy scales and notes that Christine had been able to flawlessly perform, but Meg sang with passion and fire. Normally he would have scoffed at such ridiculous lyrics, but he found himself unable to find any blame with them. As Sorsha, Meg sang them with so much truth and conviction that they truly embodied the torn emotions of the lovesick nymph.

_Let the flowers burst forth,  
__Let the wind dance about me,  
__I am lost, I am wand'ring  
__I think only of thee_

_No music or laughter  
__Can cheer my heart now  
__It is yours, Dark Magician  
__It is lost to me now_

Yes, the lyrics were laughable, but the singer was too mesmerizing and engaging to be undone by their uninspired simplicity. A few verses more and her song had ended, yet the applause had to wait. The scene was not finished, for in her final stanza she had declared that, despite the hopelessness of her love for him, Sorsha would never give herself to the Dark Magician. She knew him for what he was, she boldly informed him, and thus by the end of the song he flew at her in a rage. Meg fell to the stage in a convincing faint. In the final moment of the scene, the Magician unfurled his cloak and threw it over her still form, and with a crash of cymbals and a great swirl of smoke, the cloak was removed with a flourish to find that a blooming rose, large enough so that even audience members far from the stage could see the red blossom, remained in her place.

Alphonse sang his final lines, proclaiming that he was justified in cursing the nymph he had so lusted after, and the scene ended. The curtain fell but the applause was thunderous. Meg reappeared in the wings, having made her way up from beneath the stage after being lowered through a trap door. Immediately she was embraced by both her mother and Martine, each woman glowing with pride and filled with heartfelt compliments.

"My Meg, I knew you would be wonderful!" Madame Giry half laughed, half cried. Martine winked at her and hugged her tighter. She would have said something more were it not for the crush of cast members crowding around to congratulate Meg.

"An accomplished dancer _and_ a talented singer, eh, Mademoiselle?" boomed the mighty baritone Armando Bellini, giving her that bit of praise before sauntering off with his entourage. More compliments were pouring her way, but a dreadful sight was before Meg; Edmund was approaching with determined strides, clearly intending to claim her attention. Now that her performance was over, she still found herself seized by nerves. Her mother seemed to pick up on the situation immediately, and nodding in Edmund's direction, she instructed Martine conspiratorially, "Perhaps now is the time to ask Monsieur Barton about the extra material you and the other seamstresses will need for the rest of the chorus girls' costumes?"

Martine caught on right away, grinning wickedly as she forced her way through the crowd and aggressively claimed the Manager's attention. Meanwhile, Madame Giry pulled Meg away and the pair hurried from the stage towards Meg's dressing room. Glancing over their shoulders several times to ensure Edmund had not managed to follow, they hurried into the dressing room. "You were marvelous," Madame Giry told her daughter again, kissing her cheek. "How proud I am proud of you! But I am sure you are eager to change out of your costume and relax for a time, no? I will leave you to yourself. But do not worry; I will remain outside to make sure that no one tries to disturb you."

Meg nodded, strangely speechless, and hugged her mother before she departed. The solitude of the large rooms was wonderful, really, but anticipation was crawling along her flesh. Would Erik come to her now?

She did not have to wait long to find out. Locking the door behind her, Meg made her way into the next room and closed and locked that door, too. Turning from the door, she gasped to find him standing before her, his expression unreadable. She faced him squarely, folding her arms across her chest and raising her chin to meet his eyes.

"I hope I did not disappoint you too terribly," she began, and her words rang with honesty rather than contempt. "Surely you have some pointers for me. You are the master, after all, and I am humble enough now to hear your thoughts." She spoke with such respect, such contrition that Erik could only shake his head uncertainly.

"What are you talking about, Meg?" he demanded softly, hesitantly reaching a gloved hand to touch her face. Her eyelids fluttered and her breathing stopped, but she did not move away. "Disappoint me? Never." His fingers lingered on his soft skin, brushing gently across her cheek. "You are so beautiful," he said softly, achingly, and Meg's heart soared. "So beautiful…" he echoed, and then his arms were around her, drawing her to him swiftly. There was no time to think, no time to react, for he kissed her, slowly and carefully, as though he were afraid she would disappear at any moment.

Meg was swallowed up in bliss that she had never known as excitement and pure euphoria rushed through her. At length he ended the kiss and she hesitated, but suddenly knew exactly what she had to do.

She paused for but a moment before she kissed him in return. This was a kiss without any uncertainty, with passion and fire enough for the both of them. She was as insatiable as he was, it seemed, leaning into him and throwing her arms around his neck. No reservations, no regrets. She'd decided.

"I sang for you," she confided after an interminable time, her breathing labored. "I didn't want to. I didn't mean to." Erik drew his arms around her tightly, his hand cradling her head to his chest. "But you _are_ music," she continued. "How could I not sing for you who have been my friend and protector since I returned?"

"Are you still so concerned that I think of you as another young protégé?" he queried gently.

"Of course!" she burst out, drawing a shuddering breath. "You loved her. You loved Christine. Now that she is returning…" Her voice trailed off and there was silence between them.

Erik released her long enough to turn her to face him, tilting her chin up so that she could look him in the eyes. "She _is_ returning, Meg. We both of us knew that she would not stay away forever. She has been your friend for many years and I am certain that, were it not for me, you would be very happy to see her again." He could not help but wonder where this newfound wisdom derived from. With Meg in his arms, a place he was convinced she belonged, all the answers he had been searching for had suddenly found him.

"You are right," Meg admitted with a small smile. "She has been my dearest friend since we were girls, and I've missed her. But it doesn't change the fact that she meant so much to you."

"Five years ago, you mean."

"Yes, well, five years isn't so very long."

How right she was. He sighed raggedly, placing his hands lightly on her shoulders and thinking over his words carefully. "She is returning, but I will not strike back at her. And I will not fall in love with her again."

"Why _did_ you kiss me just now?" Her question stunned him. She continued in an irritatingly calm voice, "Was it because I sang for you? Or because I'm beautiful?" Meg didn't sound as if she liked either reason.

"Both. Neither. Everything." He wasn't making any sense and the confusion on her face showed it. "I kissed you because I wanted to...and because I loved you."

If it was possible, her eyes grew even wider. "Me? You love _me_?" He laughed shortly and pulled her back into his arms. "How?" she demanded. "When? _Why_?"

"Passionately," was his first answer, and he proved it with a kiss. "As to when and why, there are numerous reasons. This is my confession, Meg, not an interrogation," he finished teasingly, something he seemed to be getting better at little by little, but only since his little dancer had entered his life.

"It's too much," she gasped, and Erik tensed. Had he gone too far? Had he somehow misunderstood? But she had kissed him, and held him so _possessively_ that he thought…

"It's too...wonderful," she sighed in clarification, and he instantly relaxed. "But it's too…strange. I love you, too, but it seems impossible. I'm a dancer, and you're a _ghost_, and Christine is coming back, and…"

"Meg." Erik interrupted her with a dark, firm voice, and she drew her head back to look up at him.

"What?"

"You love me, Meg." He was incredulous, awed, as she finally proved to him with three hastily spoken words what he had dared to hope for. "The rest can wait."

As he kissed her again, Meg was only too happy to agree.


	14. Opening Night

**AN: I'm pulling a Jim and Pam here. For those of you who aren't obnoxious _The Office_ fans like me, I mean that our story is moving ahead a bit for now—for now, people, for now! I have a very good reason for doing this: writer's block. I don't intend to rob my readers of plenty of quality time spent with our (hopefully) favorite couple, but the story that is spinning from my cluttered mind is determined to move on for the moment and to return later. This chapter is a bit on the shorter side but there's a lot that happens, so hopefully you'll forgive me. And as a small note, some of you may notice that I have changed Meg's full name back to Marguerite. I concocted the notion that she was a Megan many, many years ago when this first began, and I have since decided that she is, to me, a Marguerite, as many suppose. I hope that doesn't upset anyone too greatly.**

**I feel I should also apologize for another long break between updates. Finals and a move back home had me putting my writing on hiatus for awhile, but I'm back with plenty of sweet, summer time on my hands. So sit back, relax, and please take the time to review!**

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For close to the fiftieth time, Edmund reread the letter clutched in his hand.

_Greetings, Good Monsieur-_

_As the grand reopening of my Opera House draws near, I have several tasks you will, of course, be expected to fulfill. First, I shall expect Box Five to be reserved for my personal use, as you have already been informed. Second, you have no doubt noticed the sad lack of recognizable tune from the tenors in the third scene of the second act. If you had been more concerned with your role as manager rather than acting like a strutting peacock, you would have noticed this upsetting discrepancy. And as a final note, I would recommend that you see to the final touches of your lackluster choice of opera in general rather than pursuing certain ladies of the cast. It would be prudent for you to salvage what you can from this production. If these tasks are not fulfilled to my specifications, I shall be forced to visit you once more in person to insure that you understand me completely. As I am rather busy tending to my Opera House, you understand I would much rather not be forced to meet with you under such circumstances._

_I remain our faithful servant,_

_-O.G._

With shaking hands he let the missive slip from his fingers to the desk, hastily searching for a cigar to ease his tattered nerves. The note had arrived mysteriously the day before, appearing quite literally from thin air in a brief moment when he had turned his back on his desk.

Damn. Damn, damn, _damn_. He could literally feel his control slipping away, stolen by some wretched phantom fiend who moved like the ghost he likened himself to. And maybe he was a ghost, for all the manager knew. Edmund had never been one to believe in the supernatural, but he was having a rather difficult time piecing together this particular puzzle. How could a man of flesh and blood be in so many places at once, as this Phantom seemed to be? He had heard the rumors of the catacombs far below him, of the lagoon that housed unspeakable horrors from the days of the Commune. He had heard it spoken of that the Phantom had been killed, left for dead in the fire that consumed the Opera House. How, then, had he returned?

Meg. The Phantom had seen his obsession with Meg. Most of the inhabitants of the Opera House had seen it by now, but Edmund had never imagined he would be scolded by a _ghost_ for it. Retreat, for the time being, was the only option he could see. He was not a man to be easily defeated, but he had no qualms about making it appear so. Let the Phantom believe him to be duly chastised. Let the dancer and her many friends think that he had given up the chase. It would give him more power when he made his next move, when he continued on the course he had chosen for himself...and for Meg.

If there was one thing he had, it was money. And if there was another, it was time. Time and money gave a man all the power in the world.

* * *

Time truly flew on swift wings. Arriving all together too soon, the grand reopening of the Opera House had arrived at last. Chaos engulfed the entire establishment beginning in the predawn hours of that morning, a heady and palpable energy filling the hundreds that all worked seamlessly together to bring the production to life. As the hour of the performance drew near, stage hands rushed about tirelessly, ensuring that all was assembled and ready as far as the technical aspects of the production were concerned. Costumers hurried to put the finishing touches on costume after costume, chorus girls tittered under Madame Giry's watchful eye, and in the sanctuary of her dressing room, Meg Giry powdered her face, her thoughts far, far away.

She felt him before she saw him. He melted from the shadows, a wicked little half smile on his lips. Meg caught his eye in the mirror, sighing deeply and frowning at him. "Why so sad, dear Mademoiselle?" Erik asked her huskily, arms folded beneath the dark folds of his cloak.

"Why indeed," the dancer muttered, mechanically finishing the final touches on her exquisitely applied stage makeup. Her heart was heavy. After a virtual lifetime of performing, Meg had never felt so miserable and bereft of life before a performance. She had lived in a dream for nearly a fortnight, delighting in stolen moments with her phantom lover and enjoying little interference from Edmund. Determined to look past the imminent arrival of Christine, Meg had realized too late that ignoring an impending, unwanted event only made it the pain greater when it actually did arrive.

Watching her gravely, Erik knelt at her side and drew from the darkness of his cloak a pristine white lily. Offering it to her, he could not hide the joy in his eyes when she took it without hesitation, some of her glow returning as she smiled tenderly down at him. "It's beautiful," she whispered, fingering it delicately as though afraid she would damage it with any careless movement.

"It fits you perfectly," Erik murmured, his thoughts going unbidden to Christine. He had gifted her with roses, every shade of red from scarlet to ruby and beyond, tying them each with a perfectly symmetrical black bow. Such a blossom would never do for his Meg, his real angel. Her color was white, not red, though the ribbon he had bound around its stem was midnight blue, reflecting her hunger for life, the true depth of her soul and her striking, deep-seeded beauty that held him captive.

"Thank you." Meg's sincere words broke through his thoughts.

"You're welcome." He kissed her then, hard and insistently, his hands gripping her shoulders to steady them both. She was passive at first, surprised, as she often was, by his unexpected show of passion. That was the Opera Ghost for you, Meg thought bemusedly—one never knew whether he was going to disappear or kiss you. She swiftly caught on, returning his kiss with an equal amount of fervent desire, letting her hands press to his chest and gather in the silk folds of his shirt.

"Places, please!" The pounding on her dressing room door jolted them both back to reality. Meg looked exasperated, but Erik…Erik looked infuriated.

"No harming stage hands, remember?" It took a moment for him to realize she was teasing him. Amazing how love could enable one to make light of murder. Then again, Joseph Buquet had not been an innocent man. Erik had informed her as much in one of their intimate conversations that had taken place in the past fortnight. The stagehand had a soul black as pitch and had done more harm to others than Meg had cared to hear about. It had been justice, the lovers had at last uneasily agreed. They both sincerely hoped that Erik was a changed man, though neither could dredge up enough courage to admit to the other that it was still a hope and had yet solidified into a conviction. But what was love if it was not blind?

"You will be wonderful," Erik assured her as enthusiastically as he was able, showing more life than was his usual. "And I will be watching." He pulled her to his chest, embracing her tightly, willing her nerves to melt away in the safety of his arms. "And do _not_, whatever you do, think of Christine. She is your friend, remember, and will be watching eagerly for you to succeed, not to fail."

"Yes, but--"

"She is not your competition, opera or otherwise."

"How could you insinuate…" Now it was Meg's turn to realize he was only teasing. Pushing away from him, she laughed lightly, her nerves forgotten for one brief moment.

"I love you." She kissed him again, briefly, fleetingly, but with the promise of a much more attentive kiss when next they would meet. In a daze she made her way to the stage, following the stage hand like an honor guard, and just when she was sure a fresh wave of fear would overwhelm her, she was gathered into the arms of her mother. From Erik's strength and into her Madame Giry's, Meg was indescribably grateful for the support of those she loved, especially on this night above all others.

"It is time," Madame Giry reminded her, turning her daughter to carefully inspect her. "You look magnificent, just like a nymph. Martine is a wonderful seamstress, no?" She was purposely making small talk in an effort to turn Meg's thoughts from her looming performance.

"Yes, a wonderful seamstress," Meg agreed halfheartedly. "I could never thank her enough." Her mother was studying her carefully, aware of the worry that creased Meg's brow.

"Perform with your whole heart, child." Madame Giry's wisdom flowed warmly and freely. "Let your soul free and you will have nothing to regret."

"I love you," Meg whispered, aware of her cue fast approaching.

"I love you," her mother returned. She hugged her one last time with her all the love in her mighty heart, and released her to fulfill her destiny.

The critics would hail Marguerite Giry's performance as one of a kind, a true auspicious beginning to what was sure to be a noteworthy and celebrated career. The audience would delight in her performance, take awe at her graceful dancing, and weep at her passionately sung lament as the broken-hearted nymph.

But Meg would remember little of her performance, having taken her mother's advice to hand the reins over to the fire that burned within her. And her thoughts, the few that were not suspended to make room for her heart to guide her, were only for one enigmatic audience member, hidden away in the shadows of Box Five, watching her with his own kind of wonder and delight.

It was over. The cast took their final bows, glowing with pride as the audience rose in a standing ovation. The opera itself, it had to be noted, was not one that was greatly interesting or by any means a masterpiece, but the cast had truly given the meager show everything they had, and it was enough.

The revelry backstage after the final curtain fell was deafening. Amid laughter and cheers, Meg found herself once again surrounded by fellow cast mates and friends. Martine fought her way to her side, clasping a glass of infamous French absinthe in one hand. "You were magnificent!" she crowed, joining in with the laughter all around them. "The way you moved, Meg—like flames, just like I told you! And red is a wonderful color on you, have I told you that?"

"I'll take your word for it," Meg grinned, eyeing Martine's glass somewhat distastefully. "Martine, what about the gala? You can't keep a clear head if you--"

"You're sweet, Meg, really, you are such a darling. But we lowly costume mistresses aren't invited to such fancy affairs." She winked at her friend, and Meg had reason to believe she was already more than a bit drunk.

"Oh." Meg frowned, having forgotten that the larger events were reserved for actual cast members. "However will I survive such a dreadful event without your unparalleled wit?"

"You'll find a way," Martine guffawed, slapping away the arm of an eager stagehand waiting for her to join him. "And besides, those stuffy old parties are no place for a woman of _my_ refined tastes. I'd much rather gallivant about with my fellows at the Bistro, you know that!" Without further ado she emptied her glass and was happily led away.

"Where on earth is Martine going?" Madame Giry approached her daughter from behind, watching the dark-haired woman stumble away with a frown.

"To drink and be merry," Meg shrugged, having grown used to Martine's antics long ago. "Don't worry about her—she'll have a grand time, she assures me. Not that she'll remember any of it come tomorrow."

"Well, enough about Martine then. You, my darling, were wonderful!" Madame Giry enthused, glowing with maternal pride as she embraced her daughter. "Just as I knew you would be. And now you must enjoy your success. I've laid out your gown for you in your dressing room."

"Whenever did you find time for that?" Meg wondered aloud, linking arms with her mother as they battled through the crowd for the hallway.

"A mother has her ways," she teased. Arriving at the dressing room doors, Madame Giry allowed Meg to enter first, shutting the door firmly behind them. A surprise awaited them, carefully placed on the chaise for them to find. The dress that Meg had originally planned to wear was nowhere in sight, an exquisite gown of midnight blue silk resting in its place. The prima ballerina gasped in sheer delight, rushing to it and gently holding it up against her body. The bodice was overlaid with tiny crystals, an effect that would be dazzling in candlelight to be sure. The skirt was full and gathered in several places at the hem, overlaid with a sheer layer of satin in a slightly lighter shade. Long white gloves were also set out on the chaise, a perfect compliment to the gown's capped sleeves, along with a pair of white slippers, no doubt in just the right size.

Madame Giry had remained stoic during Meg's delighted inspection. Concern flashed briefly in her eyes, her lips set in a grim line. "You have pleased him," she remarked solemnly, crossing her arms across her chest. "Such a gift is for no ordinary chorus girl, you understand."

"Yes, I understand," Meg assured her but said no more, admiring the gown with unveiled pleasure before a tall gilded mirror.

"Shall I help you dress?"

"No," Meg responded too quickly. Her mother flinched, giving her instant regret. "No, I can manage, Maman. Thank you."

Madame Giry seemed to visibly soften, though the worry had not quite left her eyes. "I'll see you soon, then, my darling." She left quietly, disappearing into the jubilant chaos that had trickled into the hallway. Alone in silence, Meg turned abruptly at the sound of the lock clicking. Sure enough, there was Erik, his back to her as he securely locked the world out.

He turned slowly to face her, intensity burning in his gaze. "Magnificent," he praised her softly. "You were magnificent. And now all of Paris knows it."

"I don't care for what Paris thinks," Meg vowed, approaching him with love shining plainly in her eyes. "But if you found joy in my performance, I'll consider it a success."

"_If_?" Erik laughed, gathering her to him.

"Wait." Meg pushed away. Erik stiffened immediately, a look of doubt briefly flashing across his face. "The gown is so beautiful, Erik. The only problem is…I may need help getting into it after all." Her lips turned up in a devilish grin, beckoning him to step closer. Seduction was new to Meg, yet she was discovering she had somewhat of a knack for it as far as her Phantom was concerned. She was not by nature a tease, but she did so love the charming banter she and Erik shared in so effortlessly.

He was only too happy to play along. "You've missed a crucial step, Mademoiselle."

"Oh?" she asked innocently, angling her head slightly.

"To get into that gown, I'm afraid you're going to need to get _out_ of that costume."

"Oh, calamity," she sighed dramatically, fracturing her playful façade with a burst of laughter. "Whatever shall I do?"

Erik answered her not with words, but with action. Stepping slowly towards her, he smiled rather hungrily, his hands reaching for her shoulders. With great tenderness he urged her to turn around, reaching for the ties to the costume's corset top. Slowly, deliberately he loosed them, teasing her neck with warm kisses. She leaned back into him, drawing in a sharp breath when his teeth nipped her earlobe. His steady hands began to pull the corset open, his lips seeking the hollow of her throat—

A timid knock interrupted them, startling them from their passionate moment. "Maman," Meg guessed, clasping the corset to her so that it would not fall away as intended.

But it was not Madame Giry's warm tones that called from the hallway.

"Meg? Are you there?"

It was Christine.

* * *

**AN (2): Oh dear, I've left you with a cliffhanger... With my updating history, I probably had no right to do that. But I have to keep you coming back for more, don't I? **


	15. The Face of the Past

**AN: I made a stern promise to myself that I wouldn't keep my readers with an evil cliffie for too long, so here I am with another update. I know I say this all the time, but this was a really hard chapter to write. I mean, there is so much to consider here, so many raw feelings and emotions that could go in any direction. You might want to think of this as the first part of a two-part chapter, since it doesn't quite meet the resolution I wanted it to, but it would have been too long to post all at once. Don't worry, though. I'll keep to my promise not to leave my darling readers hanging. Now, since I tried so hard to update quickly for you, won't you please, please, _please_ tell me what you think? Many thanks in advance! And as always, thanks to all of you wonderful souls that have already reviewed. You have no idea what your thoughtful comments and suggestions do for me :)**

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To Meg, it felt like the world was literally crashing around her. "Go," she whispered sharply to Erik, pulling free from his beloved grasp. "Go!"

He looked unsure, fragile—strangely heartbroken, even. Meg wanted more than anything to go with him, to abandon the pain and uncertainty that she knew must accompany Christine's visit. She could not fathom what Erik must truly be feeling. Was he doubting his choice so soon? Was the sound of Christine's honey-sweet voice all he needed to be reminded of where his heart _truly_ belonged?

"Meg, I--"

She would not let him continue. Perhaps it was fear that gave her reason for such cruelty, but she could not bear to hear any excuses, any assurances of love. She was too caught up in a storm of raw emotion to heed them now. "Just _leave_, Erik."

He did as she commanded, but not before a hard glare replaced the tenderness that had been in his eyes. Meg's heart broke at such a look, deserved as it was for her sudden callous behavior. It was too late for an apology or to try again to usher him from the room more kindly. He was gone now, and the past was knocking at her door.

Composing herself as quickly as she could, she kept the unlaced corset clasped tightly to her chest before moving with unsteady steps to the door. Her hands moved of their own accord, turning the key in the door to unlock it. She paused, tempted to lock it again, to chase Erik down to the depths of the Opera House and beg him to take her away—but she would not cave in to such rash ideas. With a firmness notorious in generations of Giry women, she threw open the door.

Christine was, as ever, beautiful. Five years had changed her in small ways, such as the added wisdom in her dark, soulful eyes, the graceful arch of her defined cheekbones and the more demure style of her curling brown hair. There was something else, though, something that Meg had forgotten in the whirlwind of thoughts and emotions that had been centered around Christine: Kindness. The woman before her glowed with it, it radiated from within her. How could Meg have forgotten? Christine was her _friend_, her childhood confidant and the closest thing to a sister she would ever have.

Tears welled in her dark eyes. Grief and guilt ate at her heart. Christine looked puzzled, then compassionate. Throwing her long arms around the prima ballerina, she embraced her with sincere affection and love, seeking to chase away whatever sadness had crept into her demeanor.

"Oh, Christine, _Christine_," Meg sobbed, letting her head fall onto her dear friend's shoulder. "How I have _missed_ you!" It was soon apparent that the former singer was not insusceptible to the emotion that had seized Meg. Tears were flowing freely from her eyes as well, and they cried together, laughing at odd moments at their own weepy display.

"Meg, you were so wonderful!" Christine gently praised her, wrapping her arm around the blonde's shoulders and leading her further into the dressing room, letting the door close behind her.

"Do you really think so?" Meg sighed, brushing away rivulets of tears on her cheeks. "You would know, after all."

"Yes, I really think so," Christine laughed, patting her bare shoulder. "I knew you could sing, of course, but you must have learned so much in England! You always had a beautiful voice, but I've never heard you sing like that."

"I was…singing for someone," Meg admitted slowly, unsure why she was even broaching such a topic.

"Oh?" The brunette smiled conspiratorially, just as she had when they were chorus girls together sharing in a piece of delicious gossip. "Anyone that I know?"

"I'm so happy you're here!" Meg changed the topic swiftly, yet her words were sincere. She _was_ happy to see Christine again, she realized with no little surprise. "Where is Raoul? He is with you, isn't he?"

"Of course. I just didn't think that your dressing room was, well, an appropriate place to bring him…"

"Oh…well, of course!" Meg laughed at herself. In a moment of impulsiveness she let the corset top fall to the floor, clothed only in a sleeveless chemise and the flaming red skirt of her costume. She gasped at her own audacity, her gaze slowly falling to the discarded corset. Having shared a dormitory room for years, the girls had traipsed about partially clothed in front of each other frequently. But Christine was a married woman now, and who knew how much time had truly strained their friendship…

Christine, however, was completely unaffected, her own gaze falling on the dazzling blue gown Erik had procured as a present for Meg, left unattended on the chaise. "Why, Meg, what a beautiful gown! Is this what you will be wearing to the gala? You'll be the belle of the ball!" Meg doubted that somewhat, seeing as Christine was a vision in a lovely gown of mint green.

"This place…so many memories. Well, not _this_ place, I mean. Imagine what Carlotta would think if she knew _that Giry girl_ had her dressing room!" The pair giggled at the thought, and soon they were animatedly recalling all of the pranks they had pulled on Carlotta in her self-proclaimed glory days at the old Opera House. They had been unusually cunning and daring in their own little ways, finding opportunities to upset the singer at every turn. Then again, it had never taken very much to upset the woman.

So wrapped up were they in reminiscing, Meg almost forgot about Erik and the very real possibility that a kind of triangle was fast approaching. Almost. Fortunately, just before her melancholy could return, Christine had insisted on helping her into her gown so that they could hurry to the gala. Madame Giry and Raoul would be missing them, not to mention the many new admirerers Meg was sure to have made, she pointed out wisely, assisting Meg in stepping into the gown and lacing up the intricate ties running along the spine of the dress.

"There now," Christine cooed, regarding her friend with a pleased look. "You look just like a fairytale." The gown fit her like a glove, hugging the slim curves of her dancer's body and settling in all the right places. Christine led the way from the dressing room, and with one glance of longing over her shoulder, Meg hurried to follow her.

The grand event for the evening was held in the Opera House's beautiful and opulent foyer, the grand marble staircase and floors polished to a perfect shine to house the event. The ornate crystal chandeliers glowed brightly with candlelight, illuminating the swaths of gold and silver fabric adorning the walls and tables that had been set up especially for the gala. Trays of champagne were ushered about by impeccably dressed servers, and all in all it reminded the former chorus girls rather uneasily of an infamous New Year's Masquerade held there over five years before.

Their entrance did not go unnoticed. They descended the staircase arm in arm as the dear old friends that they still apparently were, met by enthusiastic applause for the real star of the evening, Marguerite Giry, the Opera House's prima ballerina. At the foot of the stairs they were met by Raoul and, much to Meg's dismay, Edmund. Having little choice but to take his proffered hand, she allowed him to lead her to the dance floor. Swept up into a waltz, she fell in time with Edmund to the sweeping strains of the orchestra. Following their example, other couples soon filled the floor.

"I knew you'd be a star. Didn't I tell you that you'd be a star?" Edmund was most animated, though he did seem as if he was reluctantly subdued in some capacity.

"I'm happy to have performed tonight," Meg responded primly, finding little else to say. She had forgotten what a splendid dancer Edmund was. It was deceiving, really, how easily he held her within his arms as he whirled her across the floor. When one was with Edmund, generally it was anything but comfortable.

"You are the toast of Paris," he enthused, subtly drawing her even closer toward him. Meg could not be fooled. With perfect ease she pretended to trip, smiling apologetically up at him and feigning fatigue. If he doubted her sincerity, he did not show it, leading her off of the dance floor and to a table where the Vicomte de Chagny and his wife were seated. They had ended the waltz early too, it seemed, and Meg was at a loss as to why. As far as she knew, Christine adored dancing as much as ever. Perhaps she was weary from a day of traveling. Happily, one of the Opera's patrons caught Edmund's attention, preventing him from joining their small party.

"Meg!" Raoul greeted her cheerfully, ignoring social protocol and taking her fondly by her hands, placing a chaste kiss on her knuckles. "You were fantastic tonight! I was just telling Christine how wonderful it was to see you onstage again. You always were a fantastic dancer."

Raoul had not seen her perform more than three times, perhaps, Meg thought to herself, but it was kind of him to compliment her so. He really was a kind sort of man, having welcomed her as a sister to his wife during the month she had spent with them at his estate to prepare for their marriage. They were perfect for one another, she realized not for the first time. Christine glowed whenever Raoul was about. They fed from one another's very presence, and their hands were usually clasped together even after five years of marriage.

Feeling eager to catch up with the pair, Meg was reluctant to accept an offer to dance. She did so anyway, and for the next solid hour at least, she was swept into dance after dance, sought after by faceless male after faceless male.

It was Raoul who rescued her at last, no doubt thanks to Christine's thoughtful intervention. He danced the remaining stanzas of a waltz with her before escorting her back to his wife, careful to stare down any who appeared eager to take her back to the dance floor. Meg collapsed gratefully in the chair next to Christine, accepting a glass of champagne with a smile.

"Who knew a party was so much work," she remarked, smiling at the approaching form of her mother. Madame Giry had dressed in a lovely and sensible gown of forest green, a departure from her usual choice of somber black. Meg thought her mother was as lovely as a picture, no matter how many years of age she was. The reunion between Madame Giry and Christine was sweet and affectionate, much like a loving aunt greeted a beloved niece. Madame Giry had seen to Christine in the years she had spent at the Opera House, tending to her every care like a second daughter, though the majority of her love would always be for her natural born daughter, the only remaining piece of her darling husband and companion left in the world.

"Christine, you look wonderful," Madame Giry laughed, stroking her hand over the woman's dark hair. "I see that marriage certainly agrees with you."

"No doubt it does, Madame Giry, thank you" Christine agreed, and they fell into easy conversation. As Meg observed them, she sensed easily the trepidation that lay just beneath the surface, the awareness of all seated at the table of an event of the past yet to be spoken of. The Phantom, her Phantom, was at the heart of everyone's thoughts. It was inescapable, really, and only a matter of time before the topic was broached. Meg dreaded it, secretly hoping that a mighty distraction would appear to safe them all from the disaster that must eventually arise from such a conversation.

"…breath of fresh air." Meg had missed something.

"What was that?"

"You look as though you could use a breath of fresh air," Madame Giry repeated, her unflinching gaze part concern and part suspicion. She could see the inner turmoil Meg felt clearly. There was no fooling her mother.

"I think you're right," Meg agreed with a hasty smile. "Please excuse me." She fled the table gracefully, careful to walk slowly enough that she would not draw attention to herself. Even if she did want to run from the room, under no circumstance could she betray such a notion.

She discovered that an adjoining hallway was surprisingly empty, the polished marble echoing only with the soft patter of her footsteps. A short walk was just what she needed. She would not go far, she decided, but travel just long enough to clear her head. Her thoughts wandered where they would, though never once did they stray from Erik and Christine. After a few moments spent walking in this manner, she rounded a corner into another hallway.

And promptly collided with an impenetrable wall of flesh and bone.

_Erik._

"Meg." His finger rested lightly on her lips, a clear sign that he would brook no argument or refusal from her for his sudden appearance. He drank in the sight of her, worshipping her beauty with his eyes. "You are enchanting, Mademoiselle. Your beauty steals my breath away."

"Thank you," she murmured as his finger fell away, her eyes fixed resolutely on the ground. Oh, the turmoil that filled her now—the opposing desires to kiss him and to run from him, to be with him and be far from his reach.

"Now listen to me very carefully." His words were slightly menacing, sending a shiver of warning down her spine. "You _cannot_ run from your problems, Meg. You _cannot_ avoid that which you dread, be it me or otherwise."

"But I don't--" Her argument was cut short when his finger returned to her lips, reminding her that he was determined to do all the talking.

"You _will_ listen to me." Her blood boiled at that bold command, but she seethed silently, giving into her growing curiosity to hear what it was he had to say. "Never, in all the years I have watched you, have you feared the unknown. When I first brought Christine down below, you attempted to follow us when you realized she had disappeared. Yes, I was very much aware of your presence. It was lucky your mother brought you back to the safety of the Opera House."

Meg frowned slightly, but Erik continued. "The night of the fire, you did not hesitate to lead an angry mob to my lair in search of your friend. You seized the opportunity to sail for a strange land and its strange customs to further your education, and even returned to your home without knowing for certain that you would be welcomed back again. Now if _that_ is not facing the unknown, I don't now what is.

"So _why_, Little Meg, are you so fearful now? You think I will leave you, abandon you for the _wife_ of another man and a woman that I no longer love. You think yourself too plain, too unimportant to deserve the love of any man, scarred as you are by that fool of a manager.

"But let me tell you something. Edmund cannot stop you from finding love again. Christine cannot stand between you and the man you profess to love. And _I_ will not leave you, no matter what you think, because I _love_ you. You, Marguerite Giry, are the only woman who holds my heart. That will not change, though heaven and hell should seek to tear us apart. Now, tell me once and for all: _Do you understand_?"

She was speechless. Her heart was singing and the love that she felt for the man before her filled every inch of her, but she could not find the words to tell him how she felt.

Evidently, Erik was not prepared to wait patiently for a reply. If his words could not stir her, then he would have to try another tactic. In one fluid motion he took her by the shoulders and swung her gently but firmly against the wall, trapping her there as his lips crashed onto hers. He kissed her fiercely and passionately, _demanding_ that she feel the love he was offering her. A few moments more and Erik would have no doubt that she did indeed feel it, for she returned his kiss with enough fierce passion of her own to nearly leave him reeling.

A sharp intake of breath interrupted them, pulling them most regrettably from their kiss. As she angled her head to discover the source, Meg knew in an instant the only person it could be.

Christine stood a few feet from them, her beautiful face a frozen mask of shock. Of course it was her, for who else would have thought to follow her, to offer her comfort when she was so obviously not herself? It was too much to hope that Madame Giry would be the one to discover them, or even one of the stagehands for all that Meg cared. But no, only Christine was unfortunate enough to stumble upon their interlude in the dark hallways of the Opera House.

"Meg?" Tears began to spill freely down the brunette's cheeks. "_Angel_?" Erik's arm wrapped firmly around Meg's waist, offering her comfort in the eye of the storm.

She looked as though she was facing a demon from hell. Her eyes darted from his face to Meg's, confusion written clearly on her face. Worse still, there was betrayal there too. "No." The brunette's voice was just above a whisper. "No, it…it can't be. Angel…you're…"

"Alive," Erik supplied, his voice steady despite the torturous emotions that rose inside of him.

"Meg? You can't mean to tell me that you're…you've…"

"Oh, Christine," Meg sobbed quietly. "I know this must be a terrible shock--"

"No…_no_! You don't understand, Meg! He's done terrible things!"

"He's not evil!" Meg immediately asserted, raising her chin defiantly.

"That's not what I was going to say… But he…" She drew in a shuddering breath, shaking her head from side to side. "I can't…I can't!" Without another word she turned on her heels and fled.

Meg knew what must happen next, and how she dreaded it. "Go after her," she told Erik quietly, her voice devoid of emotion. "She deserves an explanation. She deserves closure. And…and so do you."

Erik looked down at her, his heart in his eyes. Yes, he loved her, but would it be enough when he faced Christine? He kissed her swiftly, one last brief burst of passion, and then he was gone.

She was left alone, with only her thoughts to prey upon her.


	16. Confrontations

**AN: To all of my dear readers, I offer my sincere apologies for once again disappearing for an inexcusably long time. I could offer you any number of excuses, all of which are very true, but instead I'll tell you once again that I am indeed committed to finishing this story. It is my first priority amongst all of my current works in progress, and after struggling with completing this one chapter for so long, I do feel a little confident that I've made it through the worst of my writer's block. I wanted more of this chapter, but I realized that I couldn't force a perfect update into existence. I hope that this offering is satisfactory to you, and as always, I appreciate ALL of your suggestions and reviews. Thank you for not abandoning me even though it seemed that I had abandoned you! Cheers!**

* * *

Antoinette Giry found herself seated alone with two younger men whose minds were obviously very far away. Christine's husband was seated two chairs to her right, his handsomely aristocratic features uncharacteristically bleak as he fidgeted with his champagne flute. When his young wife had left in search of Meg, he had seemed somewhat ill at ease. Now that she had been gone for some time, he was beginning to look nothing short of worried.

For his part, Edmund was looking both smug and superior. He evidently attributed the Opera Populaire's successful reopening night entirely to himself. He'd had more flutes of champagne than Madame Giry had been able to count, and with each additional drink, he sank further into his chair. "I say, what on earth is keeping the girls?" he wondered aloud, his normally polished speech noticeably slurring.

"Girls?" Madame Giry asked pointedly, pinning him with a sharp glare. "I suppose you mean my daughter and the Victome's lovely wife?"

"Spot on, old girl!" Edmund grinned lazily, completely oblivious as Madame Giry bristled at his lack of decorum. He was certainly no friend of hers, after all, and he had no right to speak so familiarly of the two young women she loved so fiercely. And _old girl_! Old, indeed. Though Antoinette Giry had never been one to dwell on her own age, she didn't need pompous upstarts like the Opera House's current manager making off-handed comments about it.

"I'd hardly call the lady old," interrupted a new voice, and all three occupants of the table turned as one to face the newly arrived man standing just behind Madame Giry's chair. Monsieur Richard Firmin looked much as he did five years before when he and Gilles Andre had had the unfortunate task of managing the Opera House at the peak of the Phantom's reign of terror. Though he was no young buck, he cut a dashing figure in his evening attire.

"Monsieur Firmin! So glad you could join us!" Edmund exclaimed, popping up unsteadily and thrusting his hand out. Firmin took it sportingly, shaking hands with the younger man who had taken over his role as manager.

"You two know each other?" Madame Giry asked, her apparent indifference a ruse to hide her curiosity.

"Indeed we do, Madame," Firmin politely replied, a hint of a smile teasing his lined face. "In passing, at least."

"Bought the place from him, I did," Edmund announced jovially, clapping his hand on the much taller man's back before practically pushing him into the empty seat beside Madame Giry. "Sit down, Dick!"

Firmin frowned at the unwanted nickname, though he had the good grace to say nothing of it, something which did not escape Madame Giry's notice. Firmin had been a gruff and miserly man when he had been a manager. They had rarely seen eye to eye, if ever, and she was having a difficult time reconciling this calm and collected man sitting beside her with the blustery man she had once known.

"Charlie! Charlie, you old fool!" Evidently spying yet another familiar face, Edmund popped up from the table and hastened away, leaving the atmosphere much improved, if Madame Giry was any judge.

"It's a pleasure to see you again, Monsieur Firmin," Raoul said, extending his hand far more elegantly than Edmund had.

"The pleasure is all mine," Firmin assured him, shaking his hand briefly. "Did you bring your charming wife with you tonight?"

"Yes, but she's wandered off, I'm afraid. I'm beginning to wonder if I should be worried about her."

"I'm sure there is nothing to worry about," Madame Giry soothed. "No doubt she and Meg have found something to amuse themselves. Remember, they were great friends growing up. Their mischief knew no bounds for many years."

"Christine has told me of some of their misadventures," Raoul smiled, placated for the moment. "Perhaps they are reliving a bit of their past together."

"Perhaps," Madame Giry acknowledged, frowning imperceptibly. Perhaps they were getting themselves into new troubles, she silently feared.

"I find myself in need of a drink," Raoul decided, his spirits lifted somewhat. "Richard, can I get you anything?"

"Nothing, thank you," Firmin declined, holding up the drink he had brought with him to the table. Away the the young man went, leaving the table engulfed in stiff silence. The two remaining occupants eyed each other warily and rather unabashedly, each apparently sizing up the other. The Strange Incident had seen them at odds with one another more than once and both were obviously having a difficult time deciding if some of their past animosity still lived on.

"I see the new manager has succeeded in putting on a fine production for us this evening," Firmin commented at length, taking a sip from the darkly colored contents of his glass.

"Yes, against all odds," Madame Giry remarked dryly.

Just managing not to spit out his drink, Firmin guffawed and carefully set his glass back onto the table. "I see you've not lost your singular ability to truly speak your mind," he murmured appreciatively, a speculative gleam in his eyes.

"I'm afraid not, Monsieur. A woman loses many things with age, but I have little fear of ever losing control of my tongue. Or my lack of control over it, perhaps."

"I say that if a biting wit is yours, own up to it and do it gladly. Which is precisely, my dear Madame, what you have always done so long as I have known you."

Madame Giry eyed him with a speculative look of her own. "I am all surprise this evening, Richard Firmin. Is it possible that you have finally begun to smooth your rough edges? You continue to compliment me tonight, and while your flattery is not unappreciated, it is certainly not something I would have ever expected of _you_." Her words were not scathing, but they were accompanied by a skeptically raised brow.

He chuckled mirthlessly at her observation, deliberately setting his glass upon the table. "How long has it been now, Madame? Five, six years since the Opera House burned? Much can change in the space of a few years."

"I see."

"I'm not entirely certain that you do," Firmin remarked candidly. "Let us leave the past behind for a moment, shall we? Do you care to dance?"

"A dance?" Madame Giry's brow furrowed. She had not intended to do any sort of dancing this night for the simple fact that she could think of no one she cared to dance with. Inexplicably, she found herself reconsidering her decision. "I suppose a dance would be fine," she agreed, accepting his hand and rising with him towards the dance floor. "Mind you, I'm only curious to see if you can keep up with me."

Firmin chuckled appreciatively, taking her into his arms and smoothly sweeping her onto the dance floor.

* * *

Deep in the heart of the Opera House, the Phantom of the Opera found himself once again pursuing Christine. A terrible sense of wrongness squeezed his heart like a vice. He didn't want to play this part any longer. He didn't want to chase after the former Miss Daae like some villainous fiend hell-bent on revenge. It hardly seemed to matter that his intent in following her was only for the best, and at Meg's behest no less. The act corresponded too closely with other acts he had once committed.

He was a different man now, or so he fervently hoped. A new man. A better man. A man who found himself willing to change for the love of a woman he didn't deserve. Could he do it? Could he truly banish the demons of his past and free himself so that he might embrace the future?

Self-doubts plaguing him with each step, he finally emerged from a mold-infested passageway running parallel to the hall, planting himself firmly in front of Christine. She gasped in alarm, drawing away from him immediately with a choked sob. "Don't!" she exclaimed, warding him off with her hands flung into the air. "Don't come any closer!"

There they stood for the space of several heartbeats, two souls that had once been entwined, now strangers one with another. They regarded one another carefully, Erik's shuttered gaze carefully considering each emotion that Christine's wide eyes revealed. She was frightened of him, that much was certain. And who could possibly blame her? She was wary, confused, and angry--and she had every right to be all of those things.

"Christine. I have no intention of harming you. I only wish to speak with you." Erik spoke softly and carefully, his gloved hands held in loose fists as his side.

"This is a dream," the brunette muttered, fresh tears spilling from her eyes. "You are dead, Angel. Everyone knows that you died, so long ago…"

"No, Christine. This is no dream." He paused for a moment, pain flickering across his face. "And I am no angel."

"You were my angel, once."

"A charlatan and a liar," Erik argued softly.

"My guide and guardian."

"A guide that led you down a path of madness."

"An angel," she affirmed slowly. "An Angel of Music. _My_ Angel of Music."

"I taught you to sing," he reluctantly agreed, voice choked with emotion. "But at what price?"

In the near darkness of the hallway, they saw one another in a new light. The fear was leaving Christine's eyes, replaced with a look of frank sympathy and burgeoning understanding. Erik was seeing beyond the girl she had been to the woman she had become. Even a fool could see that she was happy with her life. He had seen her throughout the evening, watching at a safe, hidden distance as Meg was reunited with her childhood friend. Never had he seen so much as a spark of regret or longing in her eyes, especially when she was near her dear husband.

"I've not come to frighten you," he said at length. "I only wish to speak with you."

Christine smiled softly, her rigid posture loosening some. "We are talking, Angel. And I'm…I'm so very glad that we are." She turned her gaze away from him, her gloved hands fidgeting as she sought for the right words. "I thought you were dead. Raoul told me that you must be, and the Opera House was empty for so long. But in my heart, I wondered if it was possiblethat...you had survived."

Erik nodded solemnly, gesturing with his arms to indicate his person. "It is as you see. I am very much alive, Madame."

"And I'm glad that you are—no, I mean it! Don't look away, Angel. I _am_ glad. I could never wish you any harm. It's just that I'm…"

"Surprised?" Erik supplied gruffly. "Horrified, perhaps? You needn't soften your feelings for me, I assure you. Speak what is on your mind, Christine."

"Very well," she relented softly, meeting his eyes again with only a modicum of uncertainty. "I must know, Angel…Erik. What are you doing with Meg?"

* * *

She would not cry. She absolutely refused to, sitting alone in the shadow-filled hallway with her head propped against the wall. Meg had no way of knowing how long she had sat there, quickly growing cold without Erik nearby to warm her, body and soul. She had no need to fear being discovered here, especially since it seemed the night's horrible discovery had already passed, and so she remained, frozen and unsure.

Was Erik with Christine now? she wondered, her mouth unaccountably dry at the thought. He must be, for she knew it had been some time since he left. She trusted him, she reminded herself firmly, achingly aware of the painful clench in her chest. It was inconceivable that he would declare his love for her in no uncertain terms only to run off in pursuit of a married woman the very next moment, no matter what their past held.

Unbidden, a solitary tear slid warmly down her cheek. Gently dabbing at it with her finger, she held it aloft under a shaft of moonlight from an obliging window at the end of the hall. The tear glistened prettily, an innocent reminder of the sorrow and despair that threatened at any moment to grow and bubble over in her heart.

"That is _enough_!" she declared, leaping from the floor and dashing at her eyes before any more tears could escape. Sorrow? Despair? What nonsense! She was Marguerite Giry, her mother's daughter, for God's sake. Erik was absolutely right; she had never been a wilting flower, and by God, she wasn't about to start now.

She would return to the party and carry on with her evening as though nothing were amiss. Scarcely able to tell what the future would hold for Erik or herself, Little Meg was nevertheless determined to meet the future head on rather than skulking in a silent corridor waiting for it to find her. Squaring her shoulders and adopting the confident demeanor she had learnt so well from her mother, she stepped boldly to return to the gala.

* * *

Erik had expected such a question, of course, but to hear it spoken so bluntly gave him pause. There had been many occasions over the past few weeks where he had asked himself the very same question: What _was_ he doing with Meg Giry?

He had never asked to love again. He, a man born for solitude, to shun the world of the living in favor of a world of night, had asked for so little from life at all. Music, art and the beauty they held—those had been the driving factors of his very existence. Was it truly so surprising that he had once lusted after a woman who had embodied those things? Untested, untried, barely human after a life spent in shadows and self-loathing, it had taken so little to lose what self control he had in pursuit of Christine Daae.

When it was all over, that madness of five years before, his world had been left in ruins. Eager for death, he had been thwarted yet again. Finding himself cursed to go on living instead, he knew that his shattered heart would never love again.

And then there was Meg. God in heaven, he had never asked for her, never intended to lose his wounded heart to another thrice damned chorus girl.

Then again, she was a chorus girl no longer. He would be damned before he lost her now.

She had come out of nowhere, drawing him away from the remains of his dark domain long enough to see that, incredibly, there was still light and love left in the world, even for him. He had been reluctant at first, very nearly convincing himself that it was her spirited beauty alone that inspired him to once again lust after something he could never have. And even now that he had given into the longings of his healing heart, things were forever complicated and growing out of their control.

The silence had gone on long enough between Erik and Christine, and at last he was obliged to try to answer her question. "It was Meg who first knew that I was still alive," he began carefully, watching Christine carefully to gauge her reaction as his story unfolded. "She promised to tell no one, and I let her go, trusting her to keep her knowledge to herself. We did not openly seek one another out, but circumstances…drew us together."

If Christine had any strong feelings on what he had said so far, she gave no visible indication. She remained expressionless, her dark eyes wide and as unreadable as he had ever seen them. "Do you love her?" she asked gently and without emotion.

"Do I love her?" Erik repeated slowly, running one gloved hand through his hair. In a rush, the words poured forth from him. "Yes, I love her. I love her passionately, Christine. Meg has saved me from wasting away in a tomb of my own making. She is…everything to me. _Everything_."

Christine nodded slowly, and at last there was a flash of _something_ in her eyes. Her hands were shaking, and without warning fresh tears filled her wide eyes. "I won't pretend that I understand. But I know Meg. She is the closest thing to a sister I will ever have, and I know that she would never…never involve herself with a man whom she didn't trust and care for, whom she didn't _love_."

Smiling through her tears, the gentle brunette dared to reach out and briefly clasp Erik's hand, shocking him with the innocent touch. "You say that Meg made you a promise, a promise that she has obviously kept. I…I would like to make the same promise to you. Erik, I promise that I will tell no one."

"But they know, Christine," he found himself correcting her. "The Company knows that I have returned, that I am still alive."

Christine shook her head. "That's not what I mean, Erik. I will tell know one that I have seen you. I will tell no one about you and Meg."

Nearly overwhelmed with unexpected relief, Erik sank to his knees, utterly dumbfounded. It was more than he could have hoped for. Momentarily forgetting to breathe, a part of Erik wondered strangely if he were dreaming. It would have been only too easy to imagine Christine standing before him, exuding true warmth as she offered him those things which he would have never truly expected from her. Such as understanding. Such as _forgiveness_.

And, most incredibly of all, her word that she would not reveal the blooming romance between the Opera House's resident Phantom and its much-beloved new leading lady. "Oh, Christine," he sighed, unashamed of the tears that had sprung to his eyes. "It is you who are an angel."

As Christine fell to her knees before him, they wept together, for both sorrow and for joy, remembering their past and sharing in the hope that the future held.

* * *

"Meg! Meg, my regal queen, there you are! Where on _earth_ did you get yourself off to?" With the way her luck was running tonight, it seemed only natural that she would run into the one man she wished least of all to see in the whole of the Opera House, if not the world itself. Hoping to rejoin her mother, Meg had instead discovered that Madame Giry was nowhere in sight, and had scarcely taken three steps back into the foyer before being met by the obviously inebriated manager.

"I needed some air," she informed Edmund coolly, prepared to sail past him when Raoul approached them with a tired smile.

"Back to enjoy your success, Meg?" he inquired warmly, his expression turning to one of puzzlement as he realized that the dancer was alone. "Where is Christine? I thought she was with you. Have you seen her?"

"Yes," Meg answered honestly, doing her best to ignore the ribbon of dread that had refused to unwrap itself from her heart. "She wished to see some of the Opera House, for old time's sake," she hastily lied, hating herself for it. "I'm sure that she'll return momentarily, Raoul. You needn't worry."

"I do hope she's not afraid of ghosts," Edmund chortled, eying a passing tray of champagne speculatively. Meg froze, the dread inside of her immediately mounting.

"Ghosts?" Raoul questioned slowly, the blood swiftly draining from his face.

"Yes, ghosts! Apparitions, spirits…_phantoms_!"

"Edmund, I'm afraid you've had too much to drink," Meg hastily cut in, going so far as to link her arm with his in her effort to dissuade him from the topic.

"And why would she need fear ghosts, monsieur?" Raoul demanded, his quiet tone of voice belying the very dangerous turn his mood had taken.

"Because the place is haunted!" Edmund informed him gleefully before Meg could intervene. Opening her mouth to try once again to cut him off, she was stunned into silence when Edmund freed his arm from hers, only to snake it tightly around her waist before she knew what he was about. For a man who had imbibed as much alcohol as he obviously had, he was surprisingly dexterous and strong.

"Ever heard of the _Le Phantome_, eh, old boy?"

"Edmund, please, you don't know what you're--"

"Meg, I'm _trying_ to tell our friend here about the resident ghost, if you don't mind," Edmund crossly pointed out, drawing her roughly against his side in a move that forced the breath out of her lungs.

"Now then, as I was saying—they call him the Phantom of the Opera, and whoever the hell he is, he's been giving me a rather difficult time as of late. Interrupting rehearsals, telling me how to run _my_ opera, demanding a _salary_… You'd think he thought he owned the place! Why, just the other day, I was sitting in my office when I heard a voice through the _walls_, if you can believe it. I wasn't afraid, of course, and I said to the voice, I said--"

Raoul's eyes had grown impossibly wide, and in a burst of youthful speed he rushed away from Edmund and Meg. "Raoul, wait!" Meg called to him, struggling to free herself from Edmund's iron grip. "Edmund, let me go!"

"Just where is it you think you're going, my little china doll?" Edmund grinned. Meg managed to shrug away from him, though her triumph was short-lived when he immediately latched onto her arm.

"I'm going after him, Edmund! Now let me _go_!"

"Wherever you go, I go," he informed her rather philosophically, his bruising grip at odds with the sloppy smile on his face.

"I don't have time for this," Meg growled, coming to an unfortunate decision. She was desperate, and she had only one chance to catch up with Raoul and somehow present a disaster beyond all their imaginations from occurring. For if he found Christine with Erik, there was no telling what would happen next.

Turning in the direction he had fled to, Meg hurried after him, Edmund all the while clinging to her and clumsily following in her wake.

* * *

In the middle of the dance floor, Madame Giry stiffened in Firmin's arms. "Madame?" he questioned, watching her eyes widen as they fixed on something over his shoulder.

Madame Giry had been having a surprisingly enjoyable dancing with Firmin, enjoying the kind of witty banter she hadn't had a chance to engage in for far too long. She had not seen Meg's reentrance to the party, but she had turned just in time to see Meg struggle with Edmund and rush away from the gala with the fool manager at her side.

"It is my daughter. Something is not right," she told Firmin, leaving his arms and hurrying across the dance floor. Other dancing couples fled from her path, wisely leery of the thunder in her eyes and the stern expression of her brow. Threading through the tables now, she was surprised when she felt a hand upon her back. Firmin had followed her and was now at her side, asking for no further explanations and doing nothing to impede her progress.

"I'm coming with you," he informed her in no uncertain terms, and as she did not argue, together they too entered the shadowy, labyrinthine corridors of the Opera House.

* * *

**AN(2): I probably have no right to give you all another cliffhanger, but I'm afraid I've done it all the same. If it's any consolation, I'm already working on the next chapter... Cross your fingers for a quick update, friends...**


	17. Resolutions

"Someone is coming." Christine looked at Erik in confusion, a frown creasing her forehead, but she did not question his statement. He was, after all, the Phantom of the Opera. If he said someone was coming, there should be no doubt in anyone's mind that someone was indeed coming. The lifeblood of the building seemed to pump through his very veins, and Christine especially knew that there was little that the Opera Ghost did not see within his domain.

They hastily stood, suddenly awkward again as they waited together in the silence of the poorly lit hallway. Remaining absolutely silent, Christine waited patiently for Erik to say more.

At length, he did. "Your husband, I believe, Madame." He sighed impatiently, bracing a hand against the wall. "No doubt your absence has been noted."

"I haven't been away long," Christine said quietly, unconsciously clasping her hands together. "At least, it doesn't seem that I've been gone for long." In truth, the woman had completely lost track of the time. While unintentionally reuniting with her former mentor, she had almost totally forgotten that her young husband would be waiting for her return.

"I should go." Her voice held a ribbon of unease, and Erik glanced at her sharply. "He can't see you," she added gravely, meeting his eyes. "He would never, _never_ understand."

Erik could not argue with her. "No, I don't suppose he could," he said lowly, pulling his gaze away from hers, hands clenched at his side. He may have lost his lust for revenge where Raoul de Chagny was concerned, but that didn't mean that he had lost any of his dislike for the man.

Christine approached him again silently, lightly touching his shoulder. "You needn't fear, Angel. I promised you that I wouldn't tell anyone, and I will keep my word. Only…" Her voice drifting away, she took a deep breath, steeling herself.

"Only you must promise me one thing."

Erik arched a dark brow, waiting silently for her to continue.

"You can't hurt her, Erik. Not in any way. I believe you when you say that you love her, but…"

"But it's not enough?" he finished for her, his voice emotionless. He knew only too well that he was a danger to everyone, a threat even to the woman he loved. "Christine," he sighed, his eyes troubled. "I would never harm a hair on Marguerite Giry's head. I would sooner die than see her suffer in any way, least of all by my hand."

"Or by your actions," Christine was quick to add.

"Or by my actions," he conceded. "Not by myself, my words, or my actions. And," he added fiercely, "I would never allow anyone else to harm her. She…she _is_ dear to me. She will always be safe with me," he vowed, his solemn promise a harsh whisper in the night.

Christine remained quiet for a moment, longer than Erik was comfortable with, seeing as he could hear her husband calling her name as he searched for her. Finally she smiled, slowly but certainly, nodding once, twice in understanding. "Thank you. That is very…comforting to hear."

Nodding curtly, Erik drew himself up, assuming the demeanor of the one and only Phantom. "Your husband will arrive shortly. It is time for me to disappear."

Hesitating, Christine seemed unsure how to say goodbye to her Angel of Music. Offering him her hand, she looked up at him with misty eyes, a world of emotion hidden in those depths. "Goodbye, Angel. And be careful."

"Goodbye, Christine." He clasped her hand in his, both of them unmoving for an indeterminable amount of time, until at last he pulled his hand away, practically disappearing before her very eyes as he strode into the shadows, leaving her alone in the hallway.

"_Christine_!" Raoul was close enough now that she too could hear his anxious voice. Stepping swiftly along the hallway, she called out his name and hurried to find her husband.

* * *

Edmund had apparently recovered a little from his drunken stupor, impressively keeping pace with Meg as she all but raced through the maze-like halls of the Opera House. Though she could barely stand to be near him, she was able to take some comfort in the fact that he had at least relinquished his hold upon her arm. His persistence in accompanying her was as distasteful to her as it was unnerving, but since she was so desperate to stop Raoul before he inadvertently found Erik with Christine, Meg couldn't afford to waste her time trying to rid herself of Edmund's presence.

"My, but we are persistent in following de Chagny, aren't we, Meg?" Edmund's words were spoken in a carefully neutral tone of voice, but it was no difficult task to discern the suspicion hiding within them. "I can't imagine why this seems to be such an important undertaking to you. Do you know the man well, Meg?"

"Well enough," she said quietly and more than a little impatiently. "He is the husband of my dearest friend, and therefore we are not strangers."

Edmund chuckled darkly. "Not strangers," he remarked. "Is that what they're calling it these days?"

Straightening her shoulders, Meg turned practically whipped around a corner, following the eerie echo of Raoul's voice as he called for Christine. "I'm certain I don't know what you mean."

Stumbling a bit but still managing to keep up with her, Edmund replied, "Are you always this persistent when it comes to men of means? Now, don't play dumb with me, Meg. Rich. The man is _rich_. Titled, too. Is that what you want in a man? A little wealth and--"

The crack of Meg's hand solidly connecting with Edmund's cheek echoed down the corridor. The silence that followed was filled with a charged, terrifying sort of energy, and Meg stood frozen in shock. The look on Edmund's face was one of pure loathing, his eyes aglow with unbridled anger. Taking a step back, Meg fought fiercely against the angry tears gathering in her eyes, feeling as skittish as a colt as Edmund trapped her with his gaze.

"Is this what we've come to, Meg? Am I really so terrible, so _disgusting_ to you? You loved me once. I know you did."

"You betrayed me, Edmund," Meg said shakily, unsure if the trembling in her voice was caused by fear or anger. "You destroyed whatever love I had for you when you sought comfort in the arms of my friend."

"And I have begged for your forgiveness ever since!" Edmund exploded, his voice breaking. "Yes, I was taken in by that little harlot's advances, but I'm only a man, Meg! I was young and foolish, and I have done nothing but suffered for that one mistake ever since. How can you withhold your forgiveness from me, like some goddamned _saint_? You're a ballerina, for the love of God! My parents laughed—_laughed_—when I announced my intentions of marrying you. But for whatever reason, I never stopped wanting you. We may have been apart for a few years, but I still want you, Meg. I _need_ you."

"Want me? _Need_ me?" Meg repeated in disbelief, all fear melting away as his diatribe practically set her aflame with rage. "I am not a thing, Edmund. You cannot just decide to have me simply because you want me. You have declared your intentions to me again and again. I think that I have stated quite clearly that I want nothing to do with you. Go find someone worthy of your status and your wealth. Pick some other ballerina to bestow your affections on and leave me be!"

She did not wait to hear his response, electing to turn and flee rather than waste more time trying to make him see reason. He disgusted her. More than that, he terrified her. If he couldn't understand by now that she would never return his…his _affections_, then, by God, he never would.

Somewhere within the Opera House, Erik was waiting for her. She could _feel _it. And oh, how she needed him now. The night of her grand debut had dissolved into a series of unwanted events, and her resolve to stand firm was slipping. Edmund had to be forgotten. She had to place all else aside and find Raoul before any more unfortunate events transpired.

It seemed like she had nothing else to lose. Willing her hands to stop shaking, she hurried through the dark hallways, resuming her search once more.

* * *

"Christine! Oh, thank God!" Raoul enfolded his beloved wife into his arms, releasing a shuddering breath as he buried his face in her hair. Returning his embrace eagerly, Christine sighed slowly, a simple smile of serene contentment gracing her lips. "Of course I'm safe," she said, her small hand rubbing soothing circles on his back. "I was only taking a walk, Raoul. There was no reason for you to be alarmed, my love."

Raoul said nothing at first, drawing away from Christine and holding her at arm's length, looking her over carefully as if to ensure himself that she was truly well. "Christine, it's not safe for us here."

"Why ever not?" she asked gently, her smile slowly slipping into a frown.

Running a hand through his chin-length hair in an agitated manner, Raoul seemed reluctant to tell her what he knew. "There are…rumors. I don't wish to alarm you, especially in your condition…"

Christine's hands went instantly to her stomach, covering the gentle swell that was hidden beneath the meticulously placed folds of her gown. Her husband reverently placed his larger hands over hers, thinking of the little life that was even now growing within her.

"Raoul." He looked up slowly to meet Christine's eyes. "I'm going to have a baby, Raoul. That doesn't mean I cannot withstand the horror of a rumor," she teased him gently. "Besides, you and I both know that the Opera House is a breeding ground for rumors. I'm sure that there's nothing to worry about, not really."

"I won't take chances," the Vicomte told her simply, entwining his fingers with hers. Drawing a fortifying breath, he told her of his worries. "There is a rumor that the Phantom of the Opera is still here… Still here and still alive, Christine. Even if it is _just_ a rumor, I would feel much better if we left now."

Christine beamed at him, unspeakably proud of how calmly he spoke when she knew too well how terribly this news of the Opera Ghost must have frightened him. "All right," she agreed. "If you wish to leave, then we'll leave."

Raoul searched her gaze, frowning when he evidently did not find what he was looking for. "Christine, aren't you frightened? The Phantom…"

"Did not harm us, even when he had every opportunity," she reminded him, freeing one of her hands to tenderly cup his cheek. "It has been five years, Raoul. After all this time, I think I've learned something of…of him." When Raoul looked at her beseechingly to go on, she continued, "I have no reason to fear him, and neither do you. Our lives have gone on, and surely, if he still lives, his has too."

"So compassionate," Raoul murmured, bringing his lips to hers for a chaste kiss. "I am constantly in awe of you. Your courage is rather inspiring, really." He grinned charmingly, pulling his hand away from her stomach and slipping it about her waist to guide her from the hall. "But I'm afraid that I don't share all of your optimism, and would feel much, _much_ better if we left."

"Then we'll leave. But we must say goodbye first."

"Yes, of course." In agreement to return to the party and warmed by each other's company, they turned the corner into an adjoining hall, moving together as one.

They did not get very far. At the opposite end of the hallway, Meg, too, had just turned a corner, and now they stood facing one another. Raoul smiled, ushering his wife forward to meet her.

"You found her," Meg said uncertainly from where she stood, her stomach seeming to turnover as she forced herself to take the necessary steps to meet Raoul and Christine in the middle of the hall. She had absolutely no way of knowing what sort of reception she would receive from her dearest childhood friend. The fact that Christine had not burst into tears at the sight of her or demanded that she leave seemed promising, but Meg couldn't be sure of anything now.

"I had thought that you two would be together, actually," Raoul said, frowning in perplexity.

"The Opera House is very large, Raoul," Christine said gently beside him, her eyes meeting and holding Meg's.

"Very true," he smiled. "It seems she has found us, instead. Did I make a terrible scene, Meg? I hope I didn't alarm you. I…well, I was startled."

"I can imagine," Meg commented quietly, smiling weakly. "I know how devoted you are to your wife, Raoul."

"We'll escort you back to the gala," Raoul gallantly suggested. Meg's eyes widened a fraction in alarm as Christine disengaged herself from her husband's arm and purposely walked to Meg, softly smiling.

"Here, Meg. Take my arm." If Raoul had not been standing so close to them, Meg likely would have burst into tears right then and there. A weight was lifted from her heart as her dearest and oldest friend linked her arm with Meg's, her gentle smile never losing its warmth.

She had no idea what had been said between Erik and Christine. For the moment, she wasn't entirely sure that she even cared. Her friend was beside her, and that horrible look of betrayal was gone from her eyes, replaced instead with a loving, if a bit cautious, glow. It was more than Meg could have hoped for, especially considering all of the terrible scenarios she'd played out in her mind's eye mere moments before.

Christine may have been looking for an angel for much of her young life, but as far as Meg could tell now, she had never needed one. Christine de Chagny was an angel herself.

* * *

"What in God's name is going on?" Firmin dared to wonder aloud as he rushed alongside Madame Giry, doing his very best to keep up with the graceful speed of the ballet instructor. They had been pursuing Meg Giry for a brief time, hastening through dark, shadow-filled corridors that reminded Firmin rather unpleasantly of his time as manager of the establishment.

"We must hurry, Firmin, if we wish to find out," was Madame Giry's curt reply to his inquiry, punctuated by the snap and swish of her flurrying skirts as she strode purposefully around a corner. "It is not necessary for you to be here, you know. You may return to the party if you so desire; I am sure there is nothing here that I cannot handle."

"Madame," Firmin replied with some humor, despite the situation, "of that I have no doubt. Nevertheless, past experience leads me to believe that there is safety in numbers when wandering through the Opera House late at night, and in the dark, no less."

"I do not need your protection," she reprimanded, thrusting her chin proudly into the air.

"I never said anything about _you_ needing protection. I was rather thinking of my own protection." Momentarily stunned by his teasing response, Madame Giry could not help the short laugh that escaped her.

"For your protection then, Monsieur, I suppose you may remain with me, but we must hurry. This way." She steadfastly refused to smile, but she could not conceal the way her eyes crinkled in amusement.

Upon turning another corner, they found to their great disappointment that the dark figure looming a few steps away was not Meg Giry, but rather the Opera House's current manager.

He glanced at them with a fierce look, though his expression changed immediately when he saw who it was approaching him. "What on earth are you doing here, Monsieur?" Madame Giry demanded, instantly alarmed that Meg was nowhere to be seen. She had seen her daughter leave with the manager from across the dance floor, and she would not rest until she knew precisely where her only child was now.

"Lovely night for a stroll, isn't it?" Edmund smiled sloppily, somewhat more sober since the last time Madame Giry and Firmin had said him but not by much.

"Do not play games with me. Where is my daughter? I saw her leave with you."

"No need to be so suspicious, Madame," the manager declared, dashing a hand through his tousled gold hair. "She left not five minutes past, dead set on finding our generous patron."

"And in which direction did she go, Monsieur?" Firmin asked, laying a gentle hand on Madame Giry's arm as he stepped forward to take control of the questioning.

"Damned if I know or care, for she will not have me," Edmund snarled, all pretenses of gentility and good humor gone in an instant as he stalked past them. "The Giry women are cold creatures, Monsieur Firmin," he called over his shoulder as he left. "Take care that you don't let them make a fool out of you."

"Well," Madame Giry said after a moment's stunned silence. "I don't know if I should be pleased or offended."

"Oh, pleased, I daresay," Firmin assured her. "Clearly, your daughter has given the young man a crushing letdown, and one, I am quite convinced after observing his behavior tonight, that he richly deserved."

"You have no idea, Firmin." It was at that precise moment that they both realized that Firmin had not removed his hand from her arm. Gazing first into one another's eyes, and then at his hand resting lightly upon her person, they remained silent as countless seconds seemed to pass them by. At length Firmin let his hand fall away, either unable or unwilling to meet her eyes again.

The moment was shattered with the timely arrival of Meg Giry and her two companions, the Comte de Chagny and his young wife. At the sight of Madame Giry, Meg broke away from her friend and rushed into her mother's arms. Firmin politely stepped away, turning to address some friendly inquiries towards Raoul and Christine.

"Did you come looking for me?" Meg asked her mother softly, pulling out of her arms.

"Of course. I saw you leave the foyer with that idiot of a manager clinging to you. There is little that I don't see, Meg, you know that," she smiled softly.

"And you were accompanied by…Monsieur Firmin?" Meg sounded both teasing and intrigued.

"He insisted on accompanying me," Madame Giry replied stiffly, though her eyes yet again crinkled at the corner. Wrapping her arm around Meg's waist, she turned them both to face the rest of their little party.

"Are you and your wife quite well?" she asked Raoul.

"Quite well," he conceded, having the good grace to look embarrassed. "I…heard a rumor, and hurried after Christine without really thinking that I might be causing a scene."

Very much aware of which rumor he must be referring to, Madame Giry sidestepped the issue entirely. "Well then, since all is well here, I'm sure you won't mind if Meg and I part ways with you now. Meg has had a very long day and I am sure she is very tired."

Meg accepted their parting praises of her performance with grace, thankful that her mother had been thoughtful enough to help her make her excuses. Christine approached to draw her into a tight embrace, and Meg hugged her back just as fiercely. She didn't know exactly where they stood now. Obviously Christine had not publicly condemned her, and for that she was unspeakably grateful, but she knew that nothing could ever be the same between them now. "Will you come and visit me soon?" Christine asked her, drawing back to look into her friend's eyes. "Raoul and I don't live so very far away. I'd be happy to send our carriage for you." "I'll come," Meg wholeheartedly agreed, squeezing Christine's hands. "I'll come whenever you wish me to."

"A fortnight from now, perhaps?" Christine pressed, and Meg could see by the flash of intensity in the woman's eyes how important it was to her that she come.

"A fortnight it is. I shall look forward to it." The rest of their farewells were made, and together the two Giry women departed in another direction. Meg could hardly believe how easily it had all been resolved. The night had been bordering on true disaster, and now here she was, walking silently beside her mother as though nothing amiss had happened.

Taking a favored shortcut, they soon arrived at the door to Meg's room. "Shall I help you out of your dress?"

Meg shook her head wearily, leaning against her door with shoulders slumped. "No, thank you, Maman. I have had a very, _very_ long night. I just want to go to bed."

"I see," Madame Giry replied cryptically, watching her daughter carefully. "You really were wonderful, my love."

"Thank you, Maman."

"And you look beautiful."

"Hmm."

Madame Giry pursed her lips together, folding her arms across her chest. "Do you know what I think, Meg? I think we need to take a small holiday. Maybe tomorrow, or the day after if you're still tired."

"I think that would be wonderful, Maman," Meg sighed dreamily, stretching her arms above her head as weariness sunk in even further.

"Breakfast, I think," her mother continued gently. "A little shopping, perhaps." When Meg raised an eyebrow at that statement, Madame Giry clucked her tongue and gently swatted her arm. "You love to shop and you know it."

"Yes, but you despise it," Meg smirked.

"Nevertheless, I am in need of a new dress," Madame Giry seriously remarked, failing to hide a frown.

"A new dress? How intriguing…" Meg's smile grew, her tired eyes sparkling with newly kindled mischief. "I don't suppose your sudden desire for new clothes has anything to do with the company you were keeping tonight…"

"Don't be ridiculous, Meg. I need a new dress, and that is all there is to it." Madame Giry busied herself adjusting the folds of her gown, carefully avoiding Meg's curious gaze. "Now, I believe you and I are both in need of some rest," she said once she had smoothed away the invisible wrinkles.

"Of course, Maman," Meg replied quite dutifully, prepared to spare her mother on the subject of Firmin. Madame Giry had carefully avoided all talk of the Phantom, even though Meg knew without a doubt that she was well aware of Erik's presence lingering throughout the events of the night. The very least Meg could do was wait until they were both well rested before the questioning could begin.

Pecking her mother on the cheek, Meg began to turn away to enter her room. "Wait," Madame Giry said, reaching out to take Meg's hand. "What did the manager say to you tonight?"

"Edmund?" Meg queried softly, her gaze falling to the floor.

"Yes. He was acting very strangely. Whatever was said between the two of you, he did not hide his displeasure with you when Firmin and I crossed his path."

Shaking her head slowly, Meg squeezed her eyes shut, as though she could block out the all memory of her encounter with Edmund. "He accused me of chasing after Raoul for his…for his money. As if I was nothing more than a…" Unable to bring herself to say it, she swallowed and continued, "I told him he was wrong. I told him to leave me alone, that I didn't love him anymore and that I never would again. He was, as you said, displeased."

Madame Giry's eyes narrowed, her hand squeezing Meg's tightly. "He threatened you."

"Not in so many words. But in a way, he's always threatening me," Meg nodded. When she opened her eyes again, they were shining with tears. "But I'm not afraid of him any longer," she softly declared, smiling at her mother. "Really, I'm not. I am protected, Maman. There's you and Martine, the members of the cast, and…"

"Erik," Madame Giry finished for her.

"Yes," Meg simply agreed, and her smile grew brighter. Madame Giry pulled Meg into her arms, smoothing her golden hair as she held her tightly.

"Get some rest, my love," she whispered after a lengthy moment passed, pulling away with a soft, encouraging smile. Meg nodded, softly bidding her good night as she slipped into her room.

He was there. Waiting for her in the stillness, Erik stood in the center of the room, illuminated by a splash of moonlight from the parted window curtains. Without quite knowing who reached the other first, they were in one another's arms.

"It feels like an eternity has passed," Meg sighed shakily, her arms wrapped so tightly around Erik's neck that for a passing moment she was afraid she was choking him. Erik only pulled her small form tighter against him, kissing her hair as he murmured his agreement.

"Erik." Pulling away slightly, he met Meg's eyes in the near darkness of the room. "I don't want you to leave," she whispered, dark eyes luminous and beseeching.

"I'll never leave you," he promised, surprised that she could even think of such a thing.

"No, no," she clarified, smiling a little. "I mean for tonight. Don't go. Stay here with me."

Visibly faltering, Erik glanced doubtfully towards the bed. "Just to sleep," she softly clarified, stepping back and pulling him with her. "Rest with me here, Erik. Please."

"Yes," he said, his heart nearly groaning with the desire to do as she asked. His confidence returned to him then, and he suddenly seemed to remember how tired his Little Meg was. He helped her slip out of her beautiful gown in silence, turning away when she sleepily sought her nightgown and drew it over her head.

He waited patiently for her by the bed, standing aside as she wearily eased herself onto its plush surface. Crossing to the other side, Erik settled himself beside her, gently drawing the soft blankets over her before wrapping his arm about her waist, drawing her closely beside him and tucking his body next to hers.

She was asleep already, he noted with no small amount of tenderness. But for Erik, sleep would not come for quite some time. Warmed by the woman he loved, his dreams were already a reality in the waking world. He had no desire to abandon such perfect contentment to sleep just yet.

* * *

AN: To those of you who thought I was gone for good this time, my sincerest apologies. Again. Like so many others, I had quite the year in 2009. Writing had to be put on the back burner while I attended to life's little challenges and I waited and waited for the right inspiration to help me get this chapter completed. Enormous thanks to all of you who follow this little story. Your comments and correspondence mean so much to me!


	18. Illumination

The Opera House remained unusually quiet long after the sun rose. Rehearsals for the next lavish production were to begin almost immediately, but the morning after grand affairs such as the opera's long overdue reopening were generally exempt from the usual efforts of its hard-working employees. The work would begin soon enough, but for a few blissful hours, the Company was allowed to sleep off the effects of their hard earned success.

Held securely in the arms of the man she loved, Meg was sure that she had never felt so safe. Despite her lingering fatigue, she was near to bursting with sweet euphoria. To be so close to Erik, free for a few hours more from the world outside their quiet haven, was more than she could have hoped for. Each moment with him was a gift. She knew that now more than ever.

Just as some part of her knew that their love had been doomed from the start. Surely she would be a fool to believe otherwise.

And yet, with each and every moment beside him, her heart only became more firmly ensnared. Meg had never known a love like this. She'd never even dreamt that such a love was possible. What she had felt for Edmund those years ago was nothing, _nothing_ to what she felt for Erik. It was as though she had been missing some crucial, intricate part of her heart, and only now had she found the perfect match to make it truly whole.

She turned in her Phantom's arms, memorizing the perfect stillness of his face while he slept. Meg had never seen him looking so relaxed and so free from cautions and cares. In the waking world, Erik was constantly on his guard. His very survival seemed to rely solely on his ability to keep one step ahead of those who had branded him a monster. He was the epitome of power and pure genius, an unparalleled artist, and a creator of music so powerful, it could bring a hardened man to his knees.

Should he ever ease his guard, his gifts and talents, incredible as they were, would all come to nothing. That he would willingly lower his defenses so completely for her sake was no small gift. It wasn't only that he was willing to sleep beside her, abandoning his careful and never-ending vigilance, but also the fact that he had abandoned the safety of darkness–for her.

The sunlight shining into the room softly illuminated his face, revealing to Meg the little details she had missed in the shadows that they always seemed to hide in. His hair, she noticed now, wasn't nearly as dark as it seemed, but rather a deep shade of golden brown. The contours of his face seemed different in the light of day, too. He was beautiful to her no matter what light she observed him under, but the shafts of sunlight made him look softer somehow, and certainly less careworn.

Something was still bothering her, however. Her fingers ghosted over his face to linger on the white demimask that clung like a second skin to his face. Whether he had left it on by choice or had simply forgotten to take it off didn't matter to her now. All that she could think of was her need to see his face–_all_ of his face–by the kind light of day. With a touch that was feather light, her fingers softly pried the mask off as delicately as possible, her eyes widening as his entire countenance was finally revealed to her.

When she had first seen his partially deformed face, she, like the others present on that terrible night, had been horrified. It stung fiercely to think of her reaction those years before. She had been no better than the rest, instantly branding him as some sort of monster and recoiling in the horror of his unnatural visage. She would not, _could_ not look upon his face with any fear or loathing now. He was beautiful to her, as whole and unblemished in her eyes as any other man she had ever known. Erik was no monster; he was only a man, condemned to a life as precarious as any fugitive's.

Setting his mask on the bed beside her, Meg was powerless to fight the warm tears that welled in her eyes. Her heart ached for him, her beloved Opera Ghost. There were no words to describe how completely she loved him. She wanted to believe in a future for them, wanted to save him from his pitiless existence in the catacombs beneath the Opera House. But she could not find the answer. What hope was there for a ballerina and her Phantom lover, when so many would fight to keep them apart? No, the world would never be kind to them, and some cynical part of her refused to ever let her forget this.

Barely breathing, she brought her face nearer to his, pressing a soft kiss to the livid skin of his marred face. Erik groaned softly, stirring beneath her kiss. His eyes opened slowly, meeting the eyes of the woman he held in his arms.

"Tears, Little Meg?" he questioned softly. His voice was warm, his breath hot against her skin. Blinking the sleep away from his dark eyes, he frowned in confusion. Suddenly aware of the exposure of his face, his eyes widened in alarm. Erik snatched his arm away from Meg and immediately tried to cover his scarred face with his hand. He pulled away from her, even as she clung to him.

"Erik, no!" Meg gasped, realizing that he must have perceived her tears of compassion as tears of horror. Words tumbled from her mouth as she tried to assure him that it wasn't at all what he thought. "I don't care how you look, Erik! Your face doesn't matter to me! Don't you see? How could it...how could I truly love you if I couldn't even stand the sight of you?" At his doubtful look, Meg desperately added, "Please, Erik...please don't try to hide yourself from me!"

His own eyes filling with tears, Erik looked impossibly torn, his hand still desperately trying to shield his face from her gaze. Slowly, he lowered his hand, looking so sure of rejection that Meg sobbed aloud. Jerking in response, he fought the urge to cover his face again, instead forcing himself to pull his hand completely away from his face.

"Meg..." Erik hastily blinked away his tears as she continued to sob beside him. Drawing his hand hesitantly across the smooth skin of her cheek, he gently cupped her face. "Please don't cry, Meg," he said, moving his hand to the back of her head and drawing her close to his chest. She clung to him, crying nearly hysterically as he tried to sooth her. When Erik was sure he could bear her tears no longer, he begged in a choked whisper, "Please, Meg..._please_. I don't know if I can take much more, my dearest Meg."

"I'm sorry, Erik. I'm so very, very sorry," she said. She tried to control her tears but failed miserably. For some moments more she continued to wept bitterly, until finally there were simply no more tears left to cry. Her breathing was erratic as she quieted, her face pressed so close to Erik's chest that she could hear his heart thunder beneath her. "Oh, Erik, if you only knew how sorry I am..."

He kept her clasped close to him, tightening his arms around her as he pressed a kiss to her forehead. "How can you be so sorry, Meg, when you have given me so much?" Erik asked her, his voice full of wonder. "I don't...I've never _felt_ this way," he confessed, his eyes searching hers. "Never, Meg, in all my life have I felt so welcome, so _loved_. You have given me the love and acceptance that I have been searching for for a lifetime. My mother, whoever she may be, could not give that love to me. Christine could not give that love to me. Your own mother, in all her kindness, cared for me as best she could, but even she could not love me without fearing me. And then you, for all your appearance of delicacy and grace, dared to place your first your trust, then your affection, your _love,_ on someone who has been more monster than man for as long as he can remember. You help to _heal _me, Meg. You make me hope for things that I cannot even give a name to."

He pressed another kiss to her forehead, brushing his hand over her hair. "Whatever you feel you have to be sorry for, for the love of God, _don't_ be. I don't ever want to see you cry like that again. I am only a man, Meg, and an egregiously flawed one at that. I cannot bear to see you so pained, Little Meg."

"I'm sorry," Meg said without thinking. She smiled through her tears at her choice of words, shaking her head softly. "I just...can't bear the thought of how much you've suffered, and for so long. You've been alone, Erik, completely and utterly alone. Everyone you've ever dared show your face to has rejected you, and I...I realized that I was one of those people at first. The night of _Don Juan Triumphant, _when Christine pulled your mask away..."

They were both quiet for a time, but they did not let go, clinging to one another in the soothing silence that surrounded them. For reasons neither of them could fathom, it seemed that they had suddenly come so far together, breaching a boundary that they had never dared approach before.

They each knew that their lives were intertwined now and forever, that no power on earth could possibly try to tear them apart. The doubts that had plagued them both would never truly be vanquished, but they could not hurt them any longer. As long as they both lived, they would live for each other.

"I want you to be my wife, Meg." The words were out of his mouth before Erik could stop himself, lingering between them in a silence that was suddenly much less comfortable. Afraid that he had been too bold, acted too soon, Erik desperately tried to think of a way to take his words back. But before he could, Meg met his eyes with a look of wonder and determination. Worried that her tears were about to make an unwelcome reappearance, she swallowed thickly before she answered him.

"Yes." One word was all it took, and instantly, their future was well and truly decided. With a smile so beautiful, it stole Erik's breath away, she nodded with a surge of newfound enthusiasm and excitement. "Erik...yes. I do want to be your wife, Erik, more than I could ever say. Oh, Erik, _yes_!"

Throwing his head back, Erik laughed aloud, nearly overwhelmed but completely overjoyed at the unimaginable gift fate had suddenly deemed to give him. She, Marguerite Giry, the most beautiful, precious woman in the wide world, wanted to be his wife. Erik, the Opera Ghost himself, was going to marry the sweetest angel he had ever known. How was it possible that life could be so...so _kind_? Dreams such as this did not come true, not for men like him! And yet it was no dream at all, and his joy was forever complete.

"Your wife," Meg was whispering, as if tasting the idea on her tongue. "And you will be my husband. Oh, it's so lovely..."

By way of agreement, Erik kissed her languidly. "Whatever will I call you?" he wondered allow some moments later. "Mrs. Opera Ghost? Madame de Phantome?"

"You would tease me at a time like this, wouldn't you," Meg halfheartedly chided. "I will be your Meg, and that is all that matters."

"The poor clergyman we convince to marry us might think differently."

"Erik, we've only just become engaged," his Meg pouted, surprising him when she quite suddenly slipped out of his arms only to perch prettily on top of him. Having gained the upper hand, she declared with a playful smile, "I don't think this is the time to worry about all of those...details." They both knew what she meant by details–insurmountable odds would have been a better term, really.

"You and I both know that there will be plenty of time to worry about those later," she continued. "For now, I'd much prefer to simply enjoy this moment. Wouldn't you like to do the same?" Her kiss was one of sweet seduction. Erik was rather inclined to agree with her regardless, but such a kiss was also very persuasive.

"Very well. We'll address the _details_, as you call them, later. Much, much later, I think." With a glint in his eyes that Meg knew spelled danger, Erik acted before she had a chance to stop him. Quite neatly reversing their positions, he loomed over her with a predatory grin. Their warm laughter mingling together, they proceeded to follow Meg's suggestion of enjoying the moment. Later, they would both agree that it was an excellent suggestion, indeed.

* * *

A/N: For those of you who didn't see this coming, you're in good company–I had no idea this chapter would work out this way. But it suddenly felt so _right_, and for the first time in a long time I was full of excitement and inspiration as I worked on the chapter. I am sorry that it's on the short side. The next chapter will be on the longer side, I promise.

Enormous thanks to all of my readers for your reviews–I am so far behind in replying, it's actually quite pathetic. But I do want you to know that your comments mean the world to me. At the end of the day, you all are the reason I'm still working on this story. Even though my updates are admittedly very slow these days, you all inspire me to just keep going. As always, I would love to hear what you think of the story so far! More updates to come of course, hopefully sooner rather than later ^-^


	19. A New Announcement

Like a phoenix from the ashes, the Opera Populaire had been reborn. The rich and well-to-do of Paris had received the establishment's grand reopening with tremendous approval, and the printed reviews, although not unanimously praiseworthy of the opera as a whole, were certainly singing the praises of one Marguerite Giry.

Meg had become something of a star overnight, it seemed. And while she was pleased that her debut had been a success, she did not dwell on the matter very much a few days after the performance. Others around her may have thought that the glow of happiness practically emanating from her had everything to do with her triumphant performance, but only she knew that the new and indescribable joy that she felt came from the knowledge that she was an engaged woman. The sensation was really quite remarkable, and she was filled with excitement for the future, uncertain though it still was.

For the time being, it seemed as though nothing could spoil her good mood, not even the sight of Edmund striding towards her as she traversed one of the hallways of the Opera House. All the same, she certainly had no desire to run into him here. Acting quickly, she turned down another hallway and hurried down it with light, quick steps. He did not call after her, as she had half expected, and she was relieved that she had lost him.

Unlike Meg, Edmund had been in a particularly black mood since the gala. Although everyone had expected to begin work for the next production immediately, all preparations had simply ground to a halt. The opera's mercurial manager had yet to announce when—or even what—the next performance would be. It was highly unusual, not to mention highly unprofessional, and the many denizens of the operatic world were beginning to worry.

At first, Meg was mildly concerned that she was the source of Edmund's foul mood. Their brief but vastly unpleasant confrontation the night of the gala would not soon be forgotten, and their history together had already caused no end of trouble since she had returned to Paris.

It seemed, however, that the real source of his current displeasure was something—or someone—else, for he had yet to even attempt to speak with her. As far as she knew, he had yet to speak with anyone, really. He was only ever seen marching to and from his office with a thunderous expression while within the Opera House, and he had left the premises entirely for long periods of time some three or four times besides. Whatever it was that was troubling him remained a mystery to the entire cast.

Meg hurried the rest of the way to her dressing room. Although Edmund may not have had any reason to be looking for her, she certainly didn't want to risk crossing paths with him again. Once inside she turned the key in the lock and released a pent-up sigh, relieved to be alone in the beautiful suite she now called her own.

She still found it both amusing and surreal that _La Carlotta_ herself had once held claim over the dressing room that was now hers. Meg had done little to change any of the opulent trappings which Carlotta had abandoned when she fled the premises, although notably the enormous portrait of the diva had been, thankfully, removed. Yet somehow it still felt as though it were all her own. It was her own little sanctuary from the demands of the opera and its manager, and no amount of gaudy décor could change that.

Erik, no doubt, had something to do with her love of the dressing room. It was here that he visited her most, where they were free from prying eyes. The room was somewhat isolated in the Opera House, and almost assuredly by design. When Carlotta had reigned as the primadonna, she had demanded to be held far above the others in the cast. In an attempt to placate her, the situation of her dressing room had suited everyone in the end. The relative isolation of the suite had fed her ego, but it had also made it convenient for the rest of the cast to stay out of her way whenever she wasn't onstage.

Meg sometimes wondered what had become of Carlotta. They had never been friends, of course; the overbearing soprano had usually only sneered at her on the rare occasions when she had even noticed her. The fact that she was the ballet instructor's daughter—Madame Giry and Carlotta had, quite naturally, never liked one another—was often the only reason she drew her attention at all. Even now she could hear the hiss of Carlotta's thickly accented voice as she complained to someone in her entourage about 'that bony little Giry girl.' One could only imagine what she might think of Meg Giry now that she was the Paris opera's newest rising star.

Seating herself at the dressing table, Meg smiled a little grimly at her reflection. It was odd to think of herself as some sort of heir to Carlotta's throne. It was much less troubling to think of herself as a peer of Christine Daae instead. No one could sing like Christine, of course; Meg had never imagined that she could. She could only hope to do the Opera Populaire justice by giving it all that she had to give.

Her thoughts far away, Meg idly began to brush her hair. Her hands stilled when she caught sight of Erik's reflection in the mirror. Meeting his gaze, she smiled warmly, a special smile that was reserved only for him. "Hello, my love," she said softly, her eyes bright with happiness.

"Meg," he greeted her simply, yet somehow he seemed to be saying so much more. "May I?" He gestured at her hairbrush. Meg's smile turned to one of bemusement as she allowed him to take the brush from her hands. He stood close behind her, gazing down at her hair in such concentration that Meg almost laughed. A moment later he began to brush out her long, golden hair, treating her thick locks almost reverently. It was oddly intimate, and inspired a sort of warm euphoria to blossom inside of her.

"Still no word on the new opera?" Erik's voice was calm and steady, his eyes searching for hers in the mirror.

"None," Meg confirmed with a sigh. It was the one subject that could unsettle her otherwise bright mood. "Everyone expected Edmund to announce it by the morning after the gala at the very least. We should have already been rehearsing for it long before now."

Erik nodded speculatively, setting the brush aside on the vanity. Unable to resist, he carefully ran his fingers through her hair. "The man is an imbecile," he scoffed. "He doesn't know opera from an organ grinder. All he cares for is glory, prestige, and beautiful women." His voice grew darker with his last words, and he placed his hands on Meg's shoulders in a way that was both protective and possessive.

Meg rested her cheek against his right hand. "I've hardly seen him since the gala," she said. "I'm grateful for a reprieve from his attentions, of course, but he's been acting strangely as of late."

"Has he really?" Meg blinked, looking at Erik's reflection quizzically. The hint of a smile on his lips made her immediately suspicious, and she turned in her seat to look up at him.

"Erik?"

"Yes, Meg?" He sounded entirely too sure of himself as far as Meg was concerned.

"You wouldn't happen to know something about that, would you?"

He returned her searching gaze unflinchingly, the very picture of nonchalance. "Know about what?"

"You know very well what I'm talking about." She pulled his hands off her shoulders and rose from the chair, fixing him with a look that she had undoubtedly inherited from her mother. "What are you up to, Erik?"

He paced a few steps away from her. "Nothing more than usual, I assure you," he said, much more carefully now. "I _am_ the Phantom of the Opera. I'm usually up to something, as well you know." One somewhat withering look from Meg was enough to make him reconsider his evasive words.

"Oh, very well, Meg. I suspect that if your manager is acting strangely, as you say, it may have something to do with a letter or two I've sent him." Arms folded, Meg raised an eyebrow at him, silently urging him to continue. "I simply informed him that he was rather fortunate that his opening night was a success, but that if he hopes to have any success in the future, he had best heed the advice of one who knows much, _much_ more than he will ever know."

"And I suppose that person would be you," Meg said with a pointed look. "No wonder he looks so angry. You've been berating him through your letters."

"That's one way of putting it," Erik agreed. "Something had to be done. Surely you can see that much."

Meg knew that he was right, in his own way. But she was no longer sure that resorting to his old tactics was a wise idea. Wouldn't it be much wiser for him to not draw so much attention to himself, at least for the time being? Drawing Edmund's attention, not to mention his ire, was hardly going to help them in the months to come. She didn't want to argue with him, especially not now, but she couldn't help but question, "Has it occurred to you that your interference could hurt the Company, Erik?"

It was Erik's turn to look displeased. "What precisely do you mean by that? Everything I do is for you _and_ the Company. Need I remind you that it is, after all, my opera?" That reminder was an uncomfortable one for Meg. Erik had changed in many ways since the Strange Incident, but as he had said a few moments ago, he was still the Phantom of the Opera. He saw himself as the true master of the arts within the Opera House, and while his genius was unquestionable, Meg couldn't help but fear that his determination to run the opera himself would lead him down a path frighteningly similar to the one he had taken five years before.

"Edmund will not play your games for long, Erik," Meg said, concern coloring her voice. "He's not like the managers we've had before. He may be a fool in many ways, but he's also a fierce and unrelenting man. If you push him too far, he won't hesitate to fight fire with fire."

"And what if he pushes _me_ too far, Meg?"

Meg sighed raggedly, massaging her temples. "Erik, please. I don't want to fight, not now." Her softly spoken plea pushed through his anger, and he felt himself relenting. Exhaling deeply, he returned to her side and drew her carefully into his arms.

"I don't wish to argue either," he conceded quietly. "But you must know that the game isn't over yet. Until he at the very least takes his job seriously and stops pursuing you so aggressively, you can't expect me to sit back and wait for him to make the next move. I can see that he is indeed a fierce and unrelenting man, but so am I. I will see this all set to right."

Meg looked up at him curiously. "And then what?"

"And then you and I can truly begin our life together." Considering his words for a moment, she sighed again and let her head rest against his chest. Erik gathered her more tightly to him, still somewhat in awe of how right it felt simply to hold her. She always seemed to fit so perfectly in his arms, and the feeling of having her there brought him indescribable contentment.

Although she had her misgivings, Meg was perfectly willing to ignore them for the time being. She didn't want to lose any of the joy that their engagement had brought to her. Yes, there was still Edmund to contend with, among other things, but couldn't they have just a few days more to turn away from their troubles?

A knock on the dressing room door elicited a frown on both their faces. Meg was tempted to ignore it, and she could see from the look in Erik's eyes that he was hoping she'd do the same. "Meg? Meg, are you in there?"

"It's Martine," Meg whispered. "She sounds determined."

"To say the least," Erik smirked after Martine knocked again on the door, with much more bravado this time. "I'd best make myself scarce." Confident that he'd slip away with his usual skill, Meg hurried to the door in the adjoining room. Unlocking it, she had to step aside in a hurry as Martine pushed through the door the moment she could.

"There you are, you goose!" The costume mistress seized her friend by the elbow and pulled her back toward the vanity in the next room.

"Martine," Meg exclaimed as she was pushed into the chair, "What on earth are you doing?"

"Putting your hair up," Martine replied matter-of-factly, reaching for Meg's hairbrush and all but attacking the ballerina's hair.

"What is—_gently_, Martine, please—what is going on?"

Martine threw open the drawer where she knew Meg kept her hair pins. "That good for nothing manager has finally called for a meeting. He wants everyone on the stage immediately. Who knows, maybe he's finally chosen a new opera, God willing."

Meg gripped the edge of the dressing table, steeling herself as Martine brusquely piled her hair on top of her head and began stabbing the pins into it. "It will be a miracle if he has," she muttered. "Still, at least we'll finally be moving forward."

"One can hope," Martine returned darkly, putting the final touch on Meg's hair. "There, now you look a little more like our rising star. _La Carlotta_ would have never walked around with her hair down, you know."

Meg laughed at Martine's teasing remark. "I always heard rumors that she didn't have much hair to begin with."

Martine smirked at her in the mirror. "When my mother was costume mistress, she once saw Carlotta's collection of wigs. She'd never seen so many in her life! Must have cost her a fortune." She reached down to pull Meg from the chair. "Now let's be on our way. If you make a habit of lingering in your dressing room, soon everyone will be calling you _La Margarita_."

The women left Meg's dressing room in a fit of laughter. As they rushed along to the stage, they regaled one another with memories of some of Carlotta's absurdities that they remembered from years before. In high spirits, they joined the crowd that had gathered near the front of the massive stage.

Edmund stood before the assembled group, looking serious and sophisticated. He appeared to have abandoned his usual overly charming persona for the time being. He was talking with one of his assistants, and all around were the murmurs of the cast and crew present for the meeting. They waited for a few minutes more to ensure everyone within the Opera House had gathered, and finally, Edmund looked ready to begin.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you all for coming to this meeting on such short notice. I know that you have all been eagerly awaiting our plans for the continued season. I am therefore sorry to inform you that a decision has not yet been made concerning our next performance."

The men and women on the stage began to murmur again, clearly displeased with such an anticlimactic announcement. Martine was coming up with some particularly creative invectives when Madame Giry moved to stand beside them. "I can't say that I'm surprised," she said to Meg, not bothering to keep her voice lowered. "I can only wonder what nonsense he is up to now. What sort of an opera manager leaves his company without an opera to perform?" The chorus girls, who had trailed behind Madame Giry, tittered at her remark.

Meg was only too willing to agree with her mother, but Edmund began speaking again before she could say as much. "I know that you are disappointed, and I daresay you have every right to be. However, I have come to a decision concerning the Company's future that will, I hope, bring some welcome change."

"What on earth is he up to?" Madame Giry whispered to her daughter.

"I haven't the slightest idea, Maman," Meg replied. "I rarely do wherever he is concerned."

"I feel that I can confidently say that our opening performance was a success," Edmund continued. "However, I have been advised that we, the Opera Populaire, can do even better." Meg drew in a sharp breath. He couldn't have possibly have decided to heed Erik's advice, could he?

Edmund paused when his assistant came hurrying back to his side. They shared a quick, whispered conference before the manager once again turned his attention back to the Company. "With that in mind, I have decided to take on a partner, who, I have just been informed, is here with us now."

Meg's head was spinning. After what Erik had told her about his mysterious letters to Edmund, it almost sounded as if the man had indeed heeded the Phantom's advice. But surely that didn't mean that he was about to engage in some sort of a…a _partnership_ with the Opera Ghost? It didn't make any sense, especially since Erik had told her nothing of the sort, and she was confident that her fiance wasn't about to waltz onto the stage for all to see. But what else could Edmund mean?

"For some of you who have remained with the cast since before the Opera House's renovation, my new partner should be no stranger to you. May I present to you…"

Meg suddenly found that she couldn't breathe.

"…Monsieur Richard Firmin."

* * *

AN: This probably seems like a bit of a lame place to end the chapter and, well, I would have to agree with you. However, it's the most natural place to pause, which means that I should have an update much much _much_ quicker this time around. I've said that before, and you have every right to be wary, but I'm daring to say it again.

To all my readers and friends, I am so sorry for another inexcusably long delay between updates. To overcome a serious case of writer's block, I finally just had to force myself to just get the next chapter written already. If it doesn't seem up to par with the rest of the story, I again apologize, but I am still happy to finally have _something_ to offer!

I can't begin to tell you how much I appreciate your encouragement and reviews. Thank you for taking the time to tell me what you think, and I hope to have the next update to you soon!


	20. Reactions

"Firmin?" Madame Giry looked positively aghast. Meg let out a shaky breath beside her, both relieved and perplexed by this new development. Firmin did, of course, have more experience managing an opera than Edmund did, but a partnership between the two men seemed rather strange. And what, Meg couldn't help but wonder, had become of Andre?

Richard Firmin cut a path through the crowd, smiling and nodding at those he recognized. He moved comfortably and with dignified confidence, dressed stylishly in well-cut clothes that were nothing at all like the drab and faded clothing of the stagehands who lingered with the rest of the crowd. As Meg watched him make his way towards Edward, she observed that he seemed somehow more refined than when he had been introduced to the Company five years before.

"Thank you, Monsieur," Firmin said once he reached Edmund, shaking hands with his new partner. He turned to address the crowd with his hat in his hands, not entirely unlike he had several years before. Some of the Company, unsure how to react to this new development, were applauding weakly. Others continued to talk amongst themselves, likely feeling as unsure as Meg did about this new addition to the opera's management.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Firmin began in his clear, loud voice, "I am pleased to find myself here with you once again. For those of you who are surprised, let me assure you that you cannot possibly be more surprised than I am by my decision to return as a manager for the Opera Populaire."

Madame Giry scoffed quietly. Meg and Martine glanced at one another behind her back, shrugging at her reaction.

"That being said," Firmin continued, "Monsieur Barton and myself will immediately turn our attention to selecting the next opera that we will be performing. We shall inform you of our decision as soon as it has been made. Thank you all very much, and I look forward to an excellent season with you."

This man was not quite the Richard Firmin that Meg remembered from before, and judging by the looks on many of the faces around her, she was not the only one who felt that way. Her memories of Andre and Firmin were of two brash and unpolished men who clearly believed that by entering the world of opera, they were entering a world of wealth, prestige, and beautiful women all around. Who, then, was this rather professional gentleman who stood before them?

The brief meeting apparently over, the murmurings of the Company continued even as Edmund and Firmin began to make their way through the crowd, making introductions wherever necessary. "Well," Martine said, watching their progress, "this is certainly a surprise. God help us all if this manager turns out to be as bad as the one we've already got."

Madame Giry remained conspicuously silent. As Edmund and Firmin seemed to be fast approaching their little group, she abruptly turned away. "Come along, girls. It is time to return to our exercises. Quickly now, _allons-y, allons-y_."

Meg and Martine watched her march smartly away with her chorus girls in tow. "I hate to state the obvious, Meg, but your mother does not look pleased." Meg smirked at her friend, fully aware that Martine, who often took delight in speaking however she pleased, didn't hate to state the obvious at all.

"Things are certainly going to get interesting," Meg said lowly. Martine looked ready to respond, but a sudden change in her demeanor warned Meg that they were no longer alone.

"Mademoiselle Giry?" Edmund's enquiry was formal and polite. After Martine took the opportunity to make herself scarce, Meg turned around to meet with the two managers. "I believe you are already acquainted with Monsieur Firmin. Firmin, say hello to our charming and talented prima ballerina."

"Mademoiselle Giry, it is a pleasure to see you again," Firmin said with a smile.

"Thank you, Monsieur. Welcome back." Meg had never really spoken to the man directly before, but he had a more pleasing manner now than she remembered him having before.

"I never had the chance to tell you how delightful your performance was the night of the opera's reopening. You are a superb dancer, and you sang beautifully, as well." Meg thanked him politely.

"If I understand correctly, you only returned to Paris a few months ago." After she nodded, Firmin continued, "Edmund is quite fortunate that you decided to return. You are a true credit to the Company, Mademoiselle. Your mother has clearly taught you very well."

"You are very kind, Monsieur Firmin. I do hope to make the Company proud." Their conversation was suddenly, and rather rudely, interrupted by Armando Bellini. The baritone's nearly smothering self-importance had only grown since the Company's recent performance, and he apparently thought that the new manager needed to be subjected to his own delightful self without delay. Meg took the opportunity to slip away from them. Speaking with Firmin, however briefly, had been pleasant enough, but she had no desire to spend any time in Edmund's company.

"Meg!" Martine stood just offstage in the right wing, motioning to the ballerina to join the small crowd of women she had recently attached herself to. Meg was happy to do so, recognizing in the little group several familiar faces. They were all seamstresses and close friends to the costume mistress. When Meg had still been a chorus girl, she had been on very friendly terms with all of them.

"Well, what do you think about all this, then?" asked Claudette, a plump woman with round, pink cheeks.

"I'm not really sure what to think," Meg replied candidly.

Josephine, with her watchful gray eyes, was quick to say, "Your mother didn't seem very pleased, I noticed. But then, I don't remember them getting on particularly well in the past."

"All that Andre and Firmin ever did was cater to the whims of that awful soprano, Carlotta." Silvie spoke with a dark frown marring her olive complexion, and all of the seamstresses grumbled in agreement. None of them would soon forget the diva's outrageous demands of the costume department, nor her infamous fits whenever she had deemed their work not worthy enough to wear.

Martine rolled her eyes, twirling one of her inky curls around her finger. "That's all any of the managers ever did, though. That menace _La Carlotta_ had them at her beck and call. She's the one who drove Lefevre away, at any rate. I wish that I'd been here to see all the excitement, though," she added. "I know my mother meant well when she sent me away, but God, look at all that I missed!"

"By the looks of it, you'll get to see it all again. History's repeating itself, Martine, mark my words!" Claudette exclaimed as she threw her hands dramatically into the air. "First the Phantom returns, now Firmin's back… I'm half expecting Carlotta herself to make her own grand entrance back into the Opera House."

"God, don't say that, Claudette!" All of the women looked mildly horrified by the very thought. "I'll gladly take on incompetent managers, and I'll even put up with the Opera Ghost if I must. But Carlotta?" Martine scoffed before finishing, "Anything, _anything_ but her!"

The women chuckled, some of them nodding their heads vigorously in agreement. "Even if she did come back, she wouldn't stay," Meg said.

"Why ever not?" Silvie asked.

Meg smiled slyly. "Because I have her magnificent dressing room, and I would never give it back to her. The Phantom himself couldn't convince me to give it up."

"Imagine the fit she'd throw!" Josephine said with a loud guffaw, and soon they were all laughing again. It felt just like old times, and Meg reveled in the warmth those happier memories inspired.

She was tempted to stay awhile and talk with them some more, but her curiosity over what Erik must be feeling about this new development soon had her excusing herself from the seamstresses. After deciding that waiting for him in her dressing room would be her best bet, Meg discreetly made her way backstage, catching snatches of whispered conversation every now and then. It seemed the whole Opera House really was abuzz with Firmin's return. There was no shortage of gossip to be had now.

A hand reached for her from the darkness. Meg barely overcame the urge to scream in surprise as it took her by the arm and roughly pulled her into the shadows whence it came.

"Is it really necessary for you to always be dragging me into your secret passages?" she whispered sharply, turning in the darkness to face Erik. He said nothing in return, and the charged silence that followed warned Meg that he was in something of a foul mood. She remained silent herself as Erik pulled her along behind him, hurrying them through the dusty passageway. Soon they were descending, and Meg knew that he was leading her to his home beneath the Opera House.

By the time Erik ushered her into the enormous room where he housed the grand piano, he was absolutely fuming. Stalking to the far side of the room, he tore off his cloak and hurled it dramatically to the ground.

"That manager is an absolute menace! Why, of all the men in Paris, did he hire _Firmin_?"

Meg watched him warily as he began to pace. She was not afraid of him, but she certainly didn't want to provoke him at the moment. "Firmin does have the experience that Edmund lacks," she said calmly. "They obviously know one another in some way. Edmund must have purchased the opera from Andre and Firmin, after all."

Erik was by no means appeased by that statement. "There is more to that pompous Englishman than meets the eye. But he will come to heel, I swear it! I will not be made a fool of!"

"Calm yourself, please," Meg urged him quietly, taking a single step closer to him before hesitating. "No one else could possibly know the demands you've made of him." Except, perhaps, Firmin. It did make one wonder how much Edmund was willing to share with his new partner. "You needn't worry so much about your reputation. Edmund has outwitted you this time, but please don't overreact, Erik."

He abruptly stopped his pacing and whirled to face her from across the room. His eyes flashed dangerously. "Overreact, Meg? I wonder what your frame of reference is. That man has taken over my opera—yes, _my_ opera! And this after having already attacked the woman I love and broken her heart on a foreign shore. Now he pursues her shamelessly and with reckless abandon within the walls of my domain!"

Meg swallowed thickly as Erik began to slowly stalk toward her. "As if it isn't enough that his very presence here is a constant threat against you, he now seems to be determined to run the Opera House into the ground. Add to it all that he has willfully disobeyed my instructions and turned to another damned fool of a man to help him manage, and I'd say that I am perfectly within my rights, both as the Opera Ghost and as your fiancé, to _react_ any way that I wish!"

He was standing directly before her now, towering over her and practically radiating his powerful anger and frustration. He was every inch the Phantom of the Opera, yet Meg gathered her courage about her. She stood her ground, refusing to be intimidated by him. She had no illusions when it came to Erik—he was as fierce and as passionate a man as she had ever known. And because she loved him dearly, flaws and all, she was willing to stand there in the path of his fury, unflinching and unwavering.

Neither spoke for several moments. Their eyes were fixed on one another, as if daring the other to act first. It was Meg who finally broke the strange, uncomfortable spell. Her wide brown eyes were filled with gentle determination as she quietly stepped around Erik and walked across the room. When she reached the far side, she bent to scoop up Erik's abused cape, holding it almost lovingly against her chest as she straightened up again.

Erik watched in silence, transfixed by the effortless grace of his little ballet dancer. He observed her long, white fingers as she draped the heavy garment over her arm and brushed away the dust and dirt it had collected on the stone floor as best as she could. Meg could feel his eyes on her as she crossed the room again to the opulent bed which dominated the far wall. Only after she had laid the cape there, taking her time to smooth any wrinkles away from the surprisingly soft material, did she turn around to face him once more.

Without warning, Erik gathered her tightly into arms, holding her desperately close as he buried his face into her hair. His breath was ragged, his heart thundering against hers while he pressed fierce, feverish kisses to her hair, her eyes, and finally, her lips. Meg was startled at first, but deliciously so. This unexpected reaction of Erik's was enough to make her head spin. Soon she was returning his kisses with matching fervor, amazed anew at the sheer passion this man could inspire in her.

By the time they broke apart, they were both gasping for breath. "I don't deserve you," Erik murmured raggedly, his lips lingering against her forehead.

"You do, Erik. Of course you do," Meg said, smiling at him tenderly.

"You are gentle and kind, Little Meg. I rage at you, and see how you respond! A monster such as I does not—"

Meg frowned at him, her eyes imploring as she reached to touch his face with a gentle hand. "You are no monster. You're a man, Erik, flesh and blood just like any other. You are no ordinary man, it's true; show me another man who could survive as you have, friendless and alone in the dark, cold depths beneath an opera house."

"Meg." His voice was imploring. "Don't…romanticize me. I will only disappoint you. Neither one of us can ever forget the things which I have done."

She dropped her hand slowly from his face, taking a small step back from him. With a sad little smile, she placed her hand over his heart, feeling it thrum beneath her fingertips. "No, Erik. We can never forget." Her eyes searched his, brightening when she apparently found what she was looking for in those depths.

"But we can move on. That's why I want to marry you. I love you, and I know that you love me. I believe that we can have a future together as man and wife, away from the darkness that has held you prisoner here for so long."

Erik drew in a sharp breath. "Away, Meg? Away from the Opera House?"

"Well, yes, eventually."

"Away from the Opera House," he repeated, savoring the words.

Meg regarded him curiously. "Did you think that we'd remain here forever?" Erik remained silent, but a slow smile crossed his lips. The warmth of that smile, and the hope that it embodied, made Meg smile tenderly in return.

When Erik's smile disappeared again, Meg knew that the subject was suddenly closed. That was well enough for the time being. They had yet to discuss their future together in-depth, and it was enough for her that he was evidently taking her assumption of their eventually leaving the Opera House into consideration. Extending his hand, Erik's eyes were warm and hopeful as he asked, "Will you dance for me, Meg?"

After accepting his warm hand, Meg paused for a moment before nodding her head. Pleased, Erik led her across the room and released her hand before the piano. He left her there and went to settle himself on the piano bench. He looked down at the piano for the briefest of moments before fixing his gaze unerringly on her, his fingers flying across the keys to elicit a melody so full of life that it immediately filled Meg with its sheer, beautiful vivacity.

It inspired her, sending her into her dance without thought. Erik played and she reacted, feeling the music as it vibrated through and around her. She was lithe and graceful, sinuous and quick, the very embodiment of his music through her dancing. All other thoughts fled and worries vanished, and they were joined together in their love of music—and their love for each other—there below the Opera House.

* * *

AN: Thank you all for your reviews! I always love to hear what you think.


	21. A New Plan

They rested together afterwards, languid and content in the silence that surrounded them. The closed room was lit by a single candle whose small, golden flame cast dark shadows across the walls and floor. It wasn't long before Meg fell fast asleep, nestled safely in his arms where she belonged. Erik couldn't help but marvel at golden-haired woman who rested so trustingly in his embrace. She had danced for him tonight; he had asked her to, and she had done it. It was without a doubt one of the most arresting sights he had ever laid eyes on. He was sure that she was grace and beauty personified, especially when she danced like _that, _just for him.

Meg continued to slumber on, and Erik, unable and unwilling to sleep himself, soon began to think in earnest on their situation. The arrival of Firmin still goaded him, and he could not determine what was to come from the new partnership between the man and Edmund. On one account, however, he felt certain: If there were to be two managers for the Opera Populaire, it only followed that Edmund would have half the work to do from before. And that could only lead to one thing—Edmund would surely plague Meg with his company to an even greater degree than before. For he had no doubt that Edmund's sights were still firmly set on his fiancé. A man such as Edmund did not let go of an obsession so easily. Erik, of all people, knew something of that at least.

As evening came on, Erik's troubled thoughts led him to a rather unexpected epiphany. Turning onto his side to face Meg, who was still sound asleep beside him, he watched her sleep for a moment more before gently waking her.

"Erik?" she murmured, stirring reluctantly. "What time is it?"

"Nearing eight, I shouldn't wonder," Erik deduced. "I'm sorry for waking you, my love, but we need to talk. I've been thinking."

That seemed to encourage Meg to pay attention. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she pushed up onto her elbows to regard him, one eyebrow slightly raised. "You've been thinking?"

"Don't look so alarmed, Meg," Erik laughed warmly. "I've had an idea, that's all." At her expectant look, Erik elucidated. "As I hope you know by now, the world of opera is quite taken by you. There is no question that you are a magnificent dancer, and now the patrons of Paris know that you're a talented soprano as well. It's very likely that everyone will expect to see you sing in the upcoming production, should our vaunted managers ever _pick_ one."

"Well, yes," Meg agreed. "I think that's understood. What of it?"

Erik chose his next words carefully. "I think it would be in your best interest not to sing in the next production, but to perform as the prima ballerina only."

Meg recoiled slightly, her eyes flashing momentarily with hurt and disappointment. "My singing did not please you," she sighed, and it twisted Erik's heart to see her look nearly complacent about it the next moment. "I was afraid of that. That's why I didn't-"

"No, Meg, that's not it at all. Hear me out a moment, if you please. You sang beautifully. I would never lie to you about that." She smiled softly at that reassurance, the light of the flickering candle catching the relief in her sleep-softened eyes.

"However," he continued, "I believe that our best course of action is to ensure that Edmund has as little access to you as possible. And the best way to do that, I think, is to limit your role in the upcoming production to some degree, if only to protect you from more exposure to that idiot of a manager. Do you see?"

Meg appeared to think over his words carefully. Erik, meanwhile, knew that he was right. Edmund had nearly drove them all mad during rehearsals for the last production, dogging Meg's heels whether she was onstage or backstage, taking on the role of director even though they had a perfectly good one already, and all just to stay close to her. She deserved better than this. She was talented enough to dance _and_ sing, and Paris deserved to see the bright jewel they had currently living in the Opera House.

"This is only temporary," he assured her. "I'm not suggesting that you relegate yourself to prima ballerina only, unless that is your wish. In fact, I have, well, something of a boon to offer you in the meantime." Taking her hand in his, he drew her closer against him once more.

"I want to help you sing, Meg. I want to be your teacher."

* * *

Meg wasn't entirely sure she was hearing him correctly. "You want to be my teacher?" she asked carefully, feeling a little dimwitted to be repeating him. With the candle light at his back, she couldn't make out his eyes in the shadowy room. He must have been in earnest, but Meg thought that she had made herself perfectly clear on that particular aspect of their relationship. She didn't want to be another Christine for him and the idea of becoming his pupil, while not as unpleasant or as unwanted an idea as before, still felt like dangerous territory.

Erik's arms tightened around her. "It's not what you think, Meg. I've told you already, you already have a lovely voice. I don't know who trained you in England, but they did a fair enough job of it." She could sense rather than see his smile. "However, if I may be so bold to say, you will never find a teacher quite like myself. You know what music is to me. You know what I did for Christine."

Meg did recoil then, pushing herself free from his embrace and turning over towards the opposite side of the bed. Of course she knew what he had done for Christine. They were past that now, but it was still, she was sorry to admit, something of a thorn in her side. She loved Christine as a sister, and she knew without a shadow of a doubt that Erik's love for Christine had taken its course and faded away, but it was still nothing short of unpleasant to be reminded of what had once occurred between them.

As she swung her legs over the side of the bed, Erik draw close to her again. She could feel his warmth radiating at her back as he brought his arms carefully around her, gently rubbing his hand down her arm. He really was difficult to ignore sometimes, she mused.

"Just let me finish, Meg. Please." With nowhere to go, and admittedly no real reason to go, Meg simply nodded. She couldn't help but let her head fall back against him, resting against his chest.

Erik sighed as he collected his thoughts once more. "As I was saying, you have a beautiful voice. But it is still, in some aspects, untrained. I can take it to heights that you cannot even imagine. More importantly, I _want_ to take it to those heights. You are not, nor would you become, merely a student to me, Meg. You are the woman I have fallen in love with, the woman that I love. It would…it would bring me great pleasure to teach you. If you would allow me to train you, mold you... It would be a remarkable gift to me, Little Meg."

The man could have been a snake charmer, Meg thought amidst the pleasant flutterings in her stomach his little speech had inspired. Her doubts from before were all but swept away by the sincerity of his fairly smoldering words. Only Erik could mix sincerity and seduction in such an enticing way. The idea was suddenly tempting in the extreme. That innate curiosity of hers wanted to know just what Erik could teach her, wondered how much more there was for her to learn. She loved music, and she loved to sing. What harm could there be in developing her voice under the guidance of a true master, particularly now that she believed his intentions were pure?

When Erik urged her to lie back on the bed once more, she did not resist him. Her eyes were slightly coquettish as she gazed up at him, her hands reaching for him and smoothing their way down his neck to his shoulders. "All right then, Opera Ghost. We have a deal. I'll tell my managers that I wish to perform as prima ballerina only—if we're not too late and they haven't miraculously chosen an opera by now—and I'll spend whatever time I can with you as your pupil. Does this satisfy you, my love?"

Erik's smile was wickedly roguish. "Very much, my dear," he agreed, and bringing his lips to hers, he began to show her exactly how pleased he was.

* * *

It seemed that things were finally turning in Edmund's favor. He was not at all disappointed in his new partner. They sat together in his office the morning after Firmin's reintroduction to the Company, going over the more tedious details of management that Edmund personally detested. Personally, he would much rather eschew such matters. Fortunately for him, Firmin was amenable to that fact—at least, he had agreed to see to some of the more administrative duties as part of his role in their partnership, while Edmund was to see to more artistic matters. A certain ballerina inevitably came to mind at that thought. Oh yes, Meg Giry was an artistic matter indeed. And if he played his cards right, he might just be able to win her fickle heart back yet.

"Edmund? Are you listening?"

Pulled from his thoughts, Edmund turned his gaze back to Firmin, who had been droning on about possible selections for their next production. Honestly, didn't the man know how droll this all was? He smiled politely, begging his pardon, and pretended to give his attention to the point at hand, although his thoughts continued to dwell on the lithe body of a certain golden-haired goddess that he hadn't seen properly for days.

Strangely enough, it was at that precise moment that the goddess in question swept into the room a mere moment after her brief knock interrupted their meeting. Both men hastened to their feet, somewhat thrown off guard by Meg Giry's abrupt arrival. "I do beg your pardons, Messieurs," she said in that honey-sweet voice of hers. "I hope that I'm not interrupting anything important."

Firmin was the first to recover. Edmund was too busy looking her over, in as discreet a manner as possible, of course. Meg was the sort of woman who could be dressed in sackcloth and ashes and still look effortlessly lovely. But dressed to the nines in a form-fitting gown of blue, with her hair caught up in a graceful profusion of curls and topped with a jaunty hat to match, she looked simply delectable. It was the first time in memory that she had sought him out in such a way, and Edmund inwardly exulted. Perhaps things were turning up even sooner than he expected.

"You're not interrupting at all, Mademoiselle Giry. Please make yourself comfortable," Firmin invited, offering her his own chair set before the desk. As for himself, he moved around the desk to stand just behind Edmund. By this time Edmund felt that he had recovered his senses enough to speak without making a fool of himself, and quickly added, "Yes, by all means, make yourself comfortable, Mademoiselle Giry."

Dear God, she was wearing perfume. _Perfume_, for Christ's sake. He could smell it from where he sat, wafting towards him across the desk. It was a scent he could not quite place, but it was heady and sweet at the same time, a profusion of amber and florals that seemed the perfect combination for the little dancer. If she had intended to make an impression, she was making one—she had his utter and complete attention.

"I trust everything is well?" Again it was Firmin who spoke first. "I understand that you have Madame Carlotta's former dressing room. I trust it is not, how shall I say…too garish for your taste?"

Meg laughed, and Edmund felt a stab of jealousy. She didn't laugh like that for him anymore, and Firmin's remark wasn't all that clever.

"No, it is not too garish for me, I assure you, Monsieur Firmin. But then, I did make some changes to it. There are far fewer furs and jewels lying about, for instance, and I have seen to it that some of the, well, the art and décor were changed up a bit."

The enormous painting of the former diva had been replaced. Of that, Edmund was intimately aware, seeing as it had come down on his head thanks to the surprisingly spritely woman before him. It was an episode he preferred not to dwell on, but whenever he did think of it, he was still puzzled that Meg had been able to push him away with such strength and speed. He, of course, could hardly remember any of it, having been knocked out cold for some time after the incident, but it did strike him as odd.

"I'm happy to hear it," Firmin chuckled.

Edmund felt pressed to insert himself back into the conversation before the two decided to talk circles around him. He didn't particularly like Firmin acting so familiarly with her, even if it was rather harmless. "What is it that we can help you with, Meg?" he asked solicitously, aware that his use of her given name might not sit well with her but still feeling anxious to establish for everyone's benefit that he thought himself more intimately acquainted with her than Firmin was.

If it bothered her, she didn't show it, at least not outright. She did not, however, speak directly to him when she responded, but rather to both of them. "It's about the upcoming production," she said, her manner confident and to the point. "I gather that you are both hard at work deciding on the next opera?"

"You gather correctly," Firmin answered for them. "We were discussing the matter before you joined us. I hope that we'll have the matter sorted out in short order."

"Very good, Monsieur Firmin," Meg smiled. "I'm glad I'm not too late. You see, I've given some thought to the upcoming production. I hope that you both understand that I don't wish to be the Opera's new primadonna… The last thing I want is to fill _La Carlotta_'s shoes. However, I do have one request."

"Anything." Edmund couldn't help his response, and he was a touch discomfited by how damned pandering it sounded.

Finally, Meg looked him directly in the eye. "Well, then. It comes to this: In the next production, I wish to appear in the role of prima ballerina only."

For a moment, Edmund didn't know what to say. This was not what he had expected from her at all. Come to think of it, he wasn't really sure what he had expected of her. Despite all his concerted efforts, he never had a damn clue when it came to Meg Giry. But this idea of hers was completely and utterly unacceptable, especially when it had been he who had pushed her into the role of soprano in the first place.

"Out of the question," he told her, meeting her gaze squarely. His tone came out clipped and brusque, and he hastened to soften his response. "You have become an overnight sensation, my dear. Now that Paris has tasted of your charms, you cannot deny them the pleasure of having you sing for them again."

His little ballerina looked undaunted, blast it all. "I wish to devote more time to developing my voice before returning to the stage in a singing role," she clarified, one eyebrow raised ever-so-slightly, as if in a challenge. "And, as I think you know, it is dancing that is my real passion. I would very much like to fully devote myself to my role as prima ballerina."

Edmund's eyes narrowed. "I tell you again, it is out of the question. You may sing as well as dance. It is to be expected."

"But I wish only to dance, nevertheless," she insisted.

"We shall have to hire a new soprano, then, and we are not looking to hire any additional cast members at the moment."

"Nonsense," Meg returned. "I was never hired to be a lead soprano, and you know perfectly well that you have plenty of sopranos to choose from in the chorus alone."

"_You_ are to be polished into our leading soprano. All of Paris will be clamoring to hear you sing again! It is a remarkable triumph for you, Meg. Once you were only a chorus girl, then a prima ballerina, now a talented soprano-the appeal cannot be denied, and you will truly be a star." His words appeared to have no effect upon her, and Edmund was growing somewhat desperate. What would it take for him to convince her just to do as he wished?

"Monsieur, perhaps I'm not making myself clear." Her eyes were positively icy as she all but stared him down. She had gotten that from her mother, he was sure. "I tell you that I wish only to dance, at least for the time being. In the future I will consider singing roles, if you still wish it of me, but for now I will appear _only_ as the prima ballerina, or I will not be appearing at all."

"I think it a fine idea." That, incredibly enough, came from Firmin, who had remained stoically silent during Edmund and Meg's heated exchange. Edmund whipped his head around to look up at him. "You _what_?"

Firmin took a step forward as he addressed Meg once again. "In fact, I have a suggestion or two to make, if I might, for the next production, both of which feature a strong lead dancer. Would you care to hear them, Mademoiselle Giry?"

"I would very much like to, yes," she readily agreed, and Edmund's head swung back again to face her.

"The first is Cholet's _La Rose Rouge_. It is a bit melodramatic, I admit, but it does feature some lovely songs that will suit our current lead vocalists, as well as a suitable role for a fine dancer such as yourself."

Meg considered his suggestion for a moment. "_La Rose Rouge_ is a fine enough opera, but it gives little for the chorus to work with."

"You make an excellent point," Firmin agreed, nodding.

"And our last opera was very similar in tone. Perhaps you have one in mind that has less to do with mad magicians and misplaced mythological creatures?"

Firmin chuckled at that, and Edmund, feeling completely out of place and hating every moment of it, swiveled his head back to Firmin again. Just when he was about to interject, Firmin continued without so much as a glance his way, completely cutting him off. "I do indeed. What do you think of Humbert's _Ozymandias_?"

Meg's eyes brightened. "I think it a very fine opera indeed. Very dramatic, as I recall, but not overly so. Just imagine the costumes and the set pieces—an opera set in Ancient Egypt will be a veritable feast for the eyes."

Edmund was quickly losing ground. Once more he posed himself to interject, scrabbling for a way to convince Meg that she wanted _more_ involvement in the next production, not any _less_, when Firmin finally turned to face him. "That's exactly what I was saying when we were discussing it, isn't it, Edmund?"

The English man blinked, wracking his brain to recall whether or not Firmin had actually said that. He hadn't been listening at all then, and he was beginning to think that his new partner was very much aware of that fact. Feeling that he was caught between a rock and a hard place, Edmund did his best to smile blandly and nodded. "There's certainly nothing more exotic than Egypt," he said, a trifle reluctantly.

"Good!" Firmin slammed his hand down on the desk, making Edmund flinch. "It's decided, then. Our next performance will be _Ozymandias_. Alphonse will play the lead role, Mademoiselle Giry will delight and amaze in her capacity as prima ballerina, and everyone in the Company will have their hands full bringing Ancient Egypt to Paris. Do you agree?"

Meg looked positively delighted. "It sounds marvelous, Monsieur Firmin. I'm sure the Company will be thrilled." And then both Meg and Firmin turned expectant faces to Edmund. He felt nothing short of ensnared. Somehow within the last five minutes, his tenuous control on his opera had once again slipped away. Firmin, whom he had thought would be more of a passive, paper-pushing partner, had just cornered him into choosing the opera he had been favoring all along, and Meg, his pretty but very slippery prima ballerina, was once again dancing out of his reach.

"I suppose I have little choice in the matter," Edmund finally said at length, forcing out a smile that must have looked as pained as he felt. If either of the other two noticed, they didn't say. Meg thanked them both graciously and fled almost immediately, then Firmin declared that he had work to do to see that production was shortly underway, leaving Edmund alone in his office.

Glancing at the clock, he swore under his breath and reached for his brandy decanter. Who the devil cared if it was only eleven in the morning? He needed a drink.

* * *

Returning to her dressing room triumphant, Meg couldn't quite believe just how well her little meeting with the managers had gone. She'd had no idea that Firmin could be so shrewd, let alone so competent. She told Erik as much when he arrived and was amused at his reluctance to agree.

"His choice in the next opera was not…completely tasteless," he said slowly, looking comically pained to admit it. He had, after all, gone out of his way to make work for the man a living hell when last he had been manager. It couldn't be easy for him to admit that there was some hope for him yet.

"_Ozymandias_ is a very exciting production, and it will perfectly suit the Company. Martine is going to be beside herself. Just think of all the beautiful costumes!"

"It will be as circus-like as that Hannibal garbage was, of that I have no doubt."

Meg's laughter seemed to cheer him some, but still not enough for her taste. "Erik, everything has gone according to plan. You should be happy."

"I am happy, my dear," he assured her, looping his arms around her waist and pressing a kiss to her brow. "I would be happier, however, if you were to remove your hat. As lovely as it is, the feathers are tickling my nose."

Meg snorted softly, reaching for the pins that held the hat in place and pulling them free. As she set the hat on the surface of the dressing table, Erik gave a nod of approval. "Yes, much better. As I was saying, I _am_ happy—I am merely perplexed. Where on earth did Firmin come up with enough sense to present not one but two suitable suggestions for the next production?"

Smiling to herself at his admission, Meg shrugged and leaned her head back against his shoulder. "Maybe he has changed. God knows that many of us have changed over the past five years. At any rate, I don't think that this is a fluke. He was very charming at the gala, from what I gathered, and was quite polished and polite when I spoke with him yesterday as well."

"If you're trying to convince me that Firmin has returned to us as a polished gentlemen with a good head for opera and its management, it's going to take more than one choice in an upcoming production to convince me, my dear. I shall be keeping my eye on him."

"If you insist," Meg sighed. She hadn't really expected him to trust Firmin right away. She wasn't quite sure why she was beginning to find him so trustworthy herself. It was intuition, perhaps, pure and simple. She'd soon have ample opportunities to see if her hunch was correct, and Firmin did seem to be something of a changed man. As far as she was concerned, changed or not, he was a vast improvement to Edmund.

Turning in Erik's arms, she took a step back and tilted her head back to meet Erik's steely gaze. "Just be careful, Erik. Firmin knows all about the rumors of your return, and we don't want any…well, trouble. Not when we have a future to plan, at any rate."

"Of course not, Meg." She was not at all convinced by his attempt at assuring her, but held her tongue. Time would tell one way or another if Firmin really was a friend or foe, or something in between. She could only hope that Erik would behave himself in the meantime.

* * *

AN: Another delay, another chapter to hopefully make up for said delay. The two operas mentioned in this chapter are both the creations of your author. The fictitious composer of Firmin's first suggestion is a tribute to the character Cholet from the made-for-TV movie _Phantom of the Opera_ from 1990. I think it is fantastic for many reasons, but mainly because Charles Dance does such a knockout job of portraying a very powerful but very human Erik. As for Firmin's second suggestion, Ozymandias is the Greek name for Ramses II of Ancient Egypt. More to come on that as rehearsals get underway, but the Wikipedia article on him is fascinating enough and much more detailed than anything you'll pick up from this fic.

Please take the time to review—it means so much to me to hear what you think. I hope you've all had fantastic summers and are looking forward to a lovely fall. Until next time!


	22. Interludes

Their lesson finished for the evening, Erik carefully closed the piano's fallboard. They had been enclosed in his, for want of a better term, bedroom beneath the Opera House for several hours. He was seated at the grand piano, and Meg faced him as she stood beside the piano a few feet away. She looked tired, perhaps even discouraged, and he frowned to himself.

"Something the matter?"

She sighed heavily, confirming his suspicions that something was, in fact, amiss. "It's the upper register," she confessed after a beat, looking down at her hands. "I'm still not feeling very comfortable with it."

"But you will, Meg," Erik insisted, standing and bracing his ungloved hands on the smoothly polished surface of the piano. "You've already come so far, my dear. It's not supposed to feel comfortable, not at first."

Meg did not look particularly convinced. "No, I suppose not. But Christine…"

Erik grew tense at the mere mention of the name. He had been expecting something like this. Inevitably, he knew, Meg could not help but compare herself to his former protégé. Anticipated or not, it rankled him all the same. But his displeasure was not directed at his little dancer. On the contrary, in a way he hated himself for it, knowing that he was largely to blame for Meg's continued feelings of inferiority whenever Christine de Chagny was concerned.

"Forget about Christine," he said, his voice somehow rough and tender and the same time. "You are not the same. Christine had the benefit of my guidance for years. You've allowed me the pleasure of coaching you for less than a month. You cannot expect to sing like her or any other accomplished soprano in so little time."

The sharp look she gave him in response made him realize his mistake immediately. "Do not misunderstand me, my dear. You _are_ an accomplished singer. You've already captivated Paris with your performance in that last insipid opera. But there is more, Meg, so much more. If you wish to be a true _prima donna_, one who is actually worthy of the title—unlike certain _other_ women who have performed before—then you must be willing to work for it."

Drawing an idle finger across the piano's surface, Meg appeared to consider his words. When she finally turned her face to his once more, he could see that irrepressible light in her eyes again, bringing a measure of pride to his heart. "You're right," she said with a small smile, squaring her shoulders. "Of course you're right." Her smile turning positively impish, she added playfully, "I suppose that I expected the world's premiere instructor would be able to work his considerable magic a little _sooner_, that's all."

"Why, you little minx!" Without further warning, Erik sprang from the bench towards her, inspiring a startled shriek from Meg. Although he had the element of surprise on his side, Meg's natural nimbleness allowed her to dart around the piano before he could catch her. They eyed each other from across the grand instrument, she with playful wariness and he with predatory determination. Their impasse was interrupted only when Meg, unable to help herself, giggled.

"Come now, Erik. It's not your fault, I'm sure. I shouldn't have expected miracles from a mere mortal such as yourself," she said with a coquettish wink of her eye.

"Oh, you've done it now, Little Meg," he said lowly. She laughed again, her fingers braced lightly against the piano. She was ready to dart away again at any given moment, and Erik knew that he'd have to tread carefully if he hoped to win this little game of cat and mouse. He took a quick step to the right, unsurprised when Meg perfectly mirrored his movement. A pause, then another step—Meg, again, followed suit.

Beneath his demi-mask, Erik's smile turned positively feral. It was the only warning that Meg had before he acted, vaulting himself across the piano, all panther-like grace and intensity. For her part, Meg gasped and stumbled back a step before quickly righting herself and turning immediately on her heel. She flew across the room towards the door, but Erik was fast on her heels. He had her several steps before the exit, grabbing her up and whirling them both about.

She was laughing with abandon now, her heart beating wildly against his chest as he brought her up to the edge of the bed set against the opposite wall. With his arms still fast around her, he brought them both down onto it, trapping Meg with his body and leering down at her with victory shining in his eyes.

"Now then, my dear," he said over her giggles, "Whatever shall I do with you? There must be something that I can do to inspire some proper gratitude out of you, ungrateful creature that you are."

"Hardly ungrateful," Meg managed to reply, her face beautifully aglow. "I was only being honest. You see, I had heard that you were something of a genius. You can't really blame me if I—"

He silenced her the best way that he knew how, kissing her soundly in the middle of her sentence. It was some time before he drew back again, and he was quite pleased by the dazed look in her eyes. "You were saying?"

"No more talking," was her dictatorial reply, and with that surprising strength her little dancer's body possessed, she managed to roll them both over until she lay on top of him. It was her turn to kiss him, sweetly and languidly at first. That particular tact did not last long, however, and soon enough she let her enthusiasm take the lead. She was making him soft, some part of him whispered in the back of his mind. But he didn't care. How could he, when he had heaven in his arms in the midst of what had formerly been his own personal hell?

Letting feelings, not thoughts, rule them, they lost themselves once more in the silence Down Below.

* * *

"And where were you last evening?" Madame Giry did not bother with her usual morning greeting, giving Meg with a look of suspicion and even disapproval as she met her in the hallway outside their rooms the next morning. She was dressed very smartly, Meg noticed, which seemed rather odd considering that it was a day of rehearsal for _Ozymandias_ just like any other.

"Rehearsing," was Meg's simple—and arguably honest—reply. "Where were you?"

The barest hint of a blush tinged Madame Giry's pale cheeks. Meg had unwittingly scored a hit in her saucy reply. Now she could only wonder, where _had_ her mother been last night?

"We are not discussing _my _behavior, Meg, but yours." Her mother's deflection did little to assuage Meg's curiosity. If anything, it only enflamed it, but she wisely held her tongue for the moment.

"Maman, I don't wish to be rude—" Madame Giry openly scoffed at this—"but it seems a little late for you to start examining my behavior, as you say, with such scrutiny. I am a grown woman, and I am perfectly capable of looking after myself, you know."

Madame Giry was by no means appeased. "Under normal circumstances, yes," she conceded, her frown deepening. "But you and I know perfectly well that the circumstances are anything but normal. I fear that you are courting fire, my love."

"We are not—"

"People are beginning to talk."

Meg drew up short. Glancing around them to ensure the hallway remained empty, she reached for Madame Giry's arm and endeavored to lower her voice.

"Talk? Mother, this is the premiere opera of Paris. The only thing that the Company loves more than a good opera is a good scandal. People are _always_ talking."

"This is different," Madame Giry insisted. "Your absences are starting to draw attention. No one ever sees you when you're not onstage, including, I might add, your own mother. I do my best to deflect their questions, but it can't last forever. You must take caution, my Little Meg. If word ever got out that you had a connection to…to _him_…"

Sighing deeply, Meg tucked an errant golden curl behind her ear. "I understand, Maman. But do not worry so. You said it yourself—" she lowered her voice even further, leaning in to whisper into her mother's ear—"he is a very great teacher. This is an opportunity too good to miss."

Madame Giry's look was inscrutable. At length, she appeared to resign herself to Meg's words. "Just try to make yourself a little more…visible." At Meg's dutiful nod, at last they again proceeded down the corridor.

* * *

Over the course of the next two days, Meg did indeed try to make herself more visible, as her mother had requested. She made it a point not to disappear immediately after rehearsals ended, and actually found that she enjoyed the additional time spent with her fellow cast members. She got on very well with most of them, and began to feel all over again the excitement of being part of something as grand and as wonderful as a spectacular operatic performance.

In an ironic twist of events, it soon became apparent that Madame Giry was becoming more and more difficult to locate. Whenever not on stage or not with the chorus girls, Madame Giry was fast becoming an elusive figure. Meg said as much after another late night rehearsal with Erik.

"Your mother has been keeping very interesting company these days," Erik replied, his eyes unreadable behind his mask.

"You've been spying on her?"

"It is, after all, my sworn duty to keep an eye on everyone within my opera house, Meg," he reminded her, a dark tone coloring his voice.

"I see you're a bit tetchy this evening," she goaded him, and her playful smile was surely all that kept him from giving her an explosive reply. Meg was fast learning about Erik and his moods, or at least as much as she was able. She loved him, yes, but she did not always understand him. He was, at the end of the day, an enigmatic and mercurial man. She could never fully predict his behavior.

"And aren't you the least bit curious to hear with whom she's been spending her time?" he pressed, looking roguishly handsome in the flicker of the candlelight, or so Meg liked to think.

"I'm almost afraid to ask," Meg admitted.

A humorless grin appeared on the Phantom's face. "I'll give you a hint: He's a manager here."

Understanding tempered with shock immediately filled Meg's dark eyes. "Firmin!" she all but shouted, her golden curls bouncing as she shook her head in disbelief. "But she can't stand him…"

"Obviously, things change." He gave her a meaningful look before striding across the room to gather up a few scattered pieces of parchment he'd left on the bed.

Meg was close behind him. "But what—good heavens, now I really am afraid to ask—what exactly are they, well, _doing_ together?"

"Good God, Meg, I'm the Opera Ghost, not a bloody voyeur!"

"Erik." Had her mother been in hearing distance, she would no doubt have been proud to hear her daughter achieve such a perfect no-nonsense tone of voice. "You obviously wanted me to know, though I can't imagine why you've kept it from me all this time. Just tell me what's going on."

Looking rather nonplussed, Erik faced her again with his arms folded implacably over his chest. "First of all," he began hotly, "I haven't been keeping it from you, seeing as I've only just discovered this strange aberration in behavior myself. Second of all, you needn't worry overly much. From what I've seen, all that they ever do when they're alone is talk."

Meg wasn't at all sure that she believed that. It all seemed like some sort of an outrageous dream. Her mother and Firmin had never liked one another, and besides that, Madame Giry was not always one for long conversations, even with those that she loved. Why on earth would she be ensconcing herself with Richard Firmin just to _talk_?

"Look, Meg, if you want anything more than that, you'll have to ask your mother. I'm at a complete loss myself. I'll admit that Firmin has apparently gained some sense during his absence from the Opera House, but I can only imagine what the appeal is for Madame Giry."

"Maybe they're just talking business," Meg theorized, her hands on her hips.

Erik chuckled briefly. "I don't think so."

This was all a little more than Meg could handle at the moment. "Why would she keep this a secret from me?" she asked quietly, hurt by the mere thought that her mother would not choose to confide in her only child. They were each other's only family and had been for many years. Surely there needed to be no secrets between them.

"I suppose," Erik drawled, "for the same reason that you have kept our intentions of marrying a secret from her."

"Oh. I…oh." Meg felt a hot blush spread across her cheeks. He certainly had her there. Although she'd been the fiancée of the Opera Ghost for well over a month now, she had yet to tell a soul—including her own mother. And why had she kept such a monumental secret to herself? Why had she not confessed all to Madame Giry, her dearest and most beloved confidante?

"I don't know how to tell her," she said slowly, the realization even more impactful as she spoke the words aloud. "I don't know what to say."

Silence stretched between them. Meg was struck by her own admission, guilt and regret forming a tight knot in her stomach. Erik watched her in that enigmatic way of his, his intense gaze revealing nothing of his inward emotion. "You must tell her, Meg." His words were measured and solemn. "She is your mother, and she deserves to know the truth.

He was right. She knew that he was right.

"I will," she promised, nodding determinedly.

"Good," Erik said after a brief pause. "See that you do. Now, then, let us return you to your room for the night." Taking her by the hand, he led his wife-to-be up the long, secret passageways back to world above.

* * *

A/N: I'm not dead. Despite the many long, unforgivable absences, I am most assuredly not dead. I finally got my degree (hurray!) and I'm starting grad school in a month, but the dream of finishing this and other stories goes on. In fact, this is the beginning of the end for this tale, if you can believe it. A few chapters more and we'll be at the end (thank you, outlines and flow charts!). I'd love to hear what you think-every review helps! Hope that you are all having wonderful a wonderful July so far, and I'll see you next chapter!


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